Mysteries in Magic
by GeekyWrites
Summary: (Sequel to a Tale of 2 Geniuses) Thirteen-year-old Sherlock is bored as ever, and Hermione has a mystery she can't solve. Join them as they race to solve a mystery before the next murder victim is killed.
1. Introductions

**Author's Note  
**

I do not own Sherlock or Harry Potter by any means (for now).

 **Chapter 1. Introductions**

 **Sherlock POV**

Swanford, a small English town that is a charming place for that of tourists but a rather dulling and ordinary place for that of the natives. It was a small town barely to be called a town, a place where it was rarely even marked on maps. Needless to say, the sole reason for its existence was that of tourists. It was also a good place though to see many without questioning or bothering, and it was the place where I had spent countless summers with my dear friend, John Watson.

I entered the small cafe, mainly as to get away from the sweltering heat. Especially during this time of year was it exceptionally hot. It was the time of year where everyone in the sane mind was busy bustling inside, and even the dogs weren't stupid enough to be running in the heat, rather resting under the cool shade of a tree or inside. Most people did dislike this time of year but it had become my favourite as it was the time I could start working on my cases.

Together John and I sat in a small booth, the cafe as usual decorated overly bright and cheery. The cafe itself was quite the hole in the wall, hardly a place you would notice unless you had been before. Everything in here was compact and miniaturised, making one feel like a giant in it and fitting the unique nature of the cafe itself. Even the name of the cafe fit it, calling it the Mouse House. I stared at the walls, which were decorated not unlike that of a kid's cartoon, with bright yellows and reds for the walls. You could hardly see it though as the walls were covered to the brim with overly cheesy and pun-filled signs only seemingly existing in coffee shops. The tantalising smell of iced coffee and freshly baked croissants and other goods wafted through the air. People of all walks of life meandered through the small cafe, bustling through in and out, weaving their own net of chaos. Most people in here, in fact, were tourists, looking to buy a cheap iced coffee or some tacky memorabilia to hang on their fridge and forget about later.

It was here though that we had spent most of our summers because it was the perfect place for me to sharpen my mind in a game I had created called Deductions. Deductions wasn't really a game most would like playing, but it amused both John and me greatly. It basically went like this, John picked any person in the cafe and I looked at them for about a minute before giving him all the details I could about the person. It was an excellent game that kept my mind both occupied and sharp and amazed John's for whatever reason.

"Shall we begin then?" I asked, already beginning to get bored.

"The lady behind you on your right shoulder." He said. I only needed to stare at her for thirty seconds before knowing every inch of her, reading her like one could read a map, my eyes searching for clues and trademarks.

She was a woman in her mid-sixties if I had to guess perhaps sixty-five. She gave the appearance though of being much older telling from the amount of care she took of her skin and other hygiene, suggesting she did not have a life of happiness or luxury. She was retired and the hobby of gardening, telling from the slight callouses on her hands and the dirt underneath her nails that you could never easily wash out. She also had a straight tan line across her back, telling she had been again kneeling a lot, and perhaps stiff joints. She was unmarried, her husband had passed away telling from where she kept her wedding ring, not around her finger but on a chain as a necklace suggesting sentiment as if they had been divorced she would have gotten rid of the ring. Telling from the state of the ring he had been dead for at least five years, noticing how it was still shining and how much care was in it, and the fact that there was little tarnish or rub on the ring.

She had entered the cafe alone but she seemed to be waiting for someone as she kept every few seconds checking her phone and then the entrance of the door. It wasn't likely that she was waiting for a close relative or friend, by then she would have at least called or texted that person to ask, this person was someone new entirely. I then began to dissect her clothing, she was dress nice enough, certainly too nice for average casual daywear, perhaps a date. Not any date though a first one telling that she had pulled out a very nice but old dress, and was wearing heels that she hadn't worn in at least a decade telling from the chafing and discomfort it was causing her. It was probably also the reason she was wearing makeup, which she was not used to as she had put too much on in an attempt to look younger, though it was failing. She was waiting for perhaps a blind date who would never come.

All of this then I told John and when I was finished his mouth was completely agape. "You made it seem easy," John said, still baffled.

"Because it was easy," I said, rolling my eyes. How could he be blind to so many things?

John grumbled in irritation. "Fine, what about her then?" He asked. motioning to the table across from us.

She was fairly young, if I had to guess she would be around my age, thirteen, maybe even fourteen. I first started at her shoes, they weren't new at all telling from the way they fit her feet and how they had been worn down at the soles, but the shoes were well-cared for telling from the various small stitches and repairs that had been done over the ages. Her shoes overall were evenly smoothed down on the bottom, suggesting she walked mainly in even places, certainly not any rough terrain. She was also quite pale considering how hot and sunny it was outside so I could guess she mainly stayed indoors. She wore a pair of faded jeans and plain white t-shirt, both of which had been bought recently telling from the state of them and the markings of where a tag had once been. Her clothes though weren't flashy at all, she certainly wasn't probably then picky or vain unlike most girls my age. If anything she was trying to draw attention away from her, as if purposely trying to act ordinary. I looked at her hands, she was clearly right-handed telling from the callouses on them, but both were stained with blue ink. Perhaps she was a writer then, or an artist? Her callouses on her hands were oddly positioned, and they suggested neither of those hobbies, but they did suggest she held something pencil-like in shape, or at least in width. I then turned to look up more and was met with bushy brown hair.

"Oh, bloody hell." John said, his mouth agape and the girl fully turned to look at us.

She had bright hazel eyes that stared squarely at us, a sharp hooked nose, and freckles that could only be described as scattered stars across her face. Her hair hadn't changed one bit either, still as wild and as fierce as a lion's mane.

"Hello, Ms. Hermione Granger."

 **Hermione POV**

I scanned the files for what seemed the thousandth time, scowling in frustration. I had memorised every single detail about this hundreds of times yet it still didn't make an ounce of sense to me. How could a muggle get a hold of a wand and kill himself with it? Muggles even if they wanted to couldn't perform magic, much less a spell of that size. Most wizards couldn't even do that spell. Yet there had been no other traces we could trace back to the wand, but the man had been a muggle for sure, so how could he have killed himself?

I sighed, breathing in the sweet aromas that drifted throughout the room; at least here it was quiet enough to focus. Certainly it was quieter than the Burrow, where it was far too large and chaotic for any work of importance to be done. While I loved Harry and all the Weasleys, I needed actual time and silence to think, emphasis on silence. The Burrow as far as I was aware was never a silent place, from the antics of Fred and George to the constant yelling and reprimanding from Mrs. Weasley, not to mention the crazy quidditch practices Harry and all the other Weasley's did outside, the whole place was just brimming with noise. Which would have have been fine, it was a wonderful place, but it was just too busy for me to actually get anything done. For Merlin's sake the Ministry had assigned me this, it was super important I got this done before school started!

Still, I would admit I did miss the chaos that usually followed me and my two best friends. Ever since I had attended Hogwarts I've gotten in the craziest adventures no person of my age should hope or dream of, and now that I wasn't surrounded by magic and all the wonderful adventures, well, to say the least, it was getting some time to get used to. I hadn't spent one whole summer in the muggle world since I was ten, asides from the trips I took on the holidays with my parents I had spent all my summers at the Burrow, or at least most of it. I had just become so accustomed to the wizard world it seemed almost impossible to reconnect with the muggle world, and most time if I did stay home in the summer I would usually just stay in my room. There was no point in trying to act like a muggle teenager.

But even at my own home, I didn't like spending there all that much. The place was too small and too cramped and full of too curious people who I knew even less and less now. It wasn't their faults, they, for the most part, hadn't changed and I knew they still loved me. It was that I was the one who had changed on them. I was the one who had become the wizard, a world that no matter how much they tried they could never really understand and I can't blame them. They do at least try, but it's hard to explain a world that they could never be a part of. It was probably the reason why we still have the state of secrecy; if muggles actually ever found out about magic the results would be disastrous. Besides, a part of me didn't want them to know, I didn't want to worry them. If they knew about Harry or Voldemort and all those adventures, I don't know what they would do. It was actually for the best they didn't know.

I then looked up to hear two voices talking. Two teenagers sat across from me in a small booth, both of them were staring at me. The older of the two was a rather stocky but well built older teenager, I would guess he was about sixteen or seventeen. He had pale blonde hair which was razored short, thick eyebrows, a button-like nose, and set eyes that were stormy grey. His eyes were wide open with shock when I turned to face him, and I knew that wasn't a good sign. The person sitting across from him though was the one who made my heart skip a few beats.

He was my age but he looked a lot older, mainly due to his sheer height. He towered at least a head over me, maybe even more. He had pale skin that was translucent, making him look more vampire than human. His hair was strikingly black against his skin, making it seem even more black than most. It was a mess, though, curly and all over like a whirlwind. He had a long narrow face that was a bit frightening to look at, mainly because it was so sharp and hawk-like. Even his eyebrows seemed to be yet intelligent looking, the most frightening thing though were his eyes. They hadn't changed one bit after all these years. They were still that piercing blue I had seen on the first day we had met, and they were still as calculating and searching as ever."Sorry, I think you've mistaken me for the wrong person." I said, quickly picking up all my books, quills, and papers.

"Sorry, I think you've mistaken me for the wrong person." I said, quickly picking up all my books, quills, and papers.

"Oh, I think I know exactly who you are." He said, his voice as cold as ice. He grabbed my wrist tightly to the point of any struggle that it hurt.

"Sherlock-" John warned, getting up now too, his face looking between both of us.

"I've been waiting a long time to do this." He said, and pulled back to punch me square in the face. I closed my eyes and spoke a hex under my breath, hoping it would work. Thankfully he immediately passed out, dropping the on the floor.

John then came running over. "What the bloody hell did you do to him?"

I looked around the cafe, everyone was staring at us, stunned. John was asking too many questions and now there were too many witnesses. This was going to be terrible for the ministry to clean up but it had just happened so quickly, I didn't think really. I would make an excuse for John later, right now we needed to move him and Sherlock, fast.

"Come on, let's take him to your house. We're already causing a scene." I said, motioning around to the now what seemed hundreds of eyes gawking at us.

John swore under his breath. "Fine, but he bloody better wake up." I smirked, John still hadn't changed a bit. Even now with him being a head taller than both of us he still protected him like an older brother.

"You still live at your old house, right?" John nodded.

"Let's take him there, then." I said, and he agreed

 **John POV**

"How is he?" She asked.

"Well, he looks like he's about to wake up. His eyes at least are moving and his heart rate seems to be steadying. The fall he took though might have given him a concussion, or at least a terrible headache when he wakes up." I said.

"How did you do that?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I know a few things." She said.

"You didn't even lay a finger on him."

"Yes I did," She said, motioning to his left wrist.

"When he grabbed me and was about to punch me I just pressed really hard here for a few seconds and he passed out."

"You made his brain think his blood pressure was rising so it lowered his blood pressure and he passed out. Now, where did you learn to do that?"

Hermione shrugged, "a couple friends."

"You have an interesting choice of friends." I noted.

"As do you." She then smiled, but it was a smiled clouded with sadness.

I took a quick scan of her. Hermione had grown up in a lot of ways since I had seen her, she certainly at least didn't seem to be overly excited or chatty anymore. Though she still seemed irrevocably bright whatever room she walked in. Besides the physical things she had also mentally changed a lot I realised, she seemed for some reason much more saddened and burdened than I expected a thirteen-year-old to be, though I was curious I was polite enough not to ask and she gave me a slight smile for that.

She gently stroked his hand. "So how is he doctor?"

"I already told you, he should be fine when he wakes up-"

"That's not what I meant." She said, firmly staring at me.

I sighed. "He's not well, Hermione. I know it's stupid to think even after all these years you still somehow affected him, but somehow you did. He cared for you a lot, a lot more than anyone realised. You were the first person of his age that he did care about, you realise that, right? I don't even know the details or anything but somehow he almost acts guilty about you, as if he caused the move. You broke him Hermione, and it broke all of us to see Sherlock like this. While we tried to put the pieces together, I don't think they'll ever fit the same."

"He wasn't the only one who was broken that day, and I'm sorry I hurt him." She whispered.

She then handed me a bottle full of a strange white liquid. "This should help with the knockout and Tylenol won't hurt him either once he comes to." she said, getting up quickly.

"Wait, you're not staying to make sure he wakes up?"

"Well, seeing as he nearly punched me in the face, I'm taking the safe route for now. Besides, he's in good hands. I'll be at my house though if you or Sherlock wants to see me. I might drop by later anyways." She said, smirking.

"Oh, and one more thing, John. Tell Sherlock he has his first case." She said, and with that, she left, not even saying goodbye.

"Oh, what have we gotten ourselves into?" I wondered.

 **Author's Note**

And that's the introductory folks! Please review and comment please, it's still in the rough stages so I would like feed-back as to how to make it better and more enjoyable. I like writing Sherlock and John better at this age, certainly Sherlock is much more interesting and dynamic to write. More on their relationship will continue. As for Hermione, well we'll see where the mystery takes them, thank you again and please review!


	2. The Case of Charles Finnigan

**Author's Note  
** I do not own the Sherlock or Harry Potter franchise.

 **Chapter 2. The Case of Charles Finnigan**

 **Sherlock POV**

When I finally did come back into consciousness the first thing I felt was aching everywhere. It wasn't exactly pain or at least pain I was accustomed to because the muscles didn't just feel sore they felt throbbing as if I had been electrocuted right after running a marathon. My vision soon followed after pain, but it was blurry, and I could only really see light and shadows. I closed my eyes, it was far too much of an ordeal to make sense of it right now, and a dulling of a headache was already starting. The more I woke up the more the pain worsened; it felt as if someone had struck a barbed wire up against my spine, sending electrical shocks throughout my nervous system. Even the singular joints in the tips of my fingers ached, and breathing was especially laborious. The worse pain though began in my head, probably due to the swelling from falling on it.

"Oh good, you're awake now," John said, handing me a cup of tea.

"How long have I been out?" I asked, my head still groggy.

"Only two hours. At first, it looked like you would never wake up."

"What happened?" I asked.

"You really don't remember?" He asked, giving me a curious look. I shook my head.

In a sense, I did actually remember it, but the memories were all hazy and blurry as if looking through it from a distance. I did remember falling and hitting the ground, and the throbbing of my head before seeing spots and blacking out. I also remembered before entering the cafe and all the details about the cafe. The in between part, though, was much too fuzzy and blurred to see, the only thing I could really remember I think is some girl, but even then I can't be sure about that and trying to recall it made my headache only worsen.

"Well, let's just say you met one of your old schoolmates. She didn't exactly take kindly either for you trying to punch her." Suddenly the memories rushed back in along with reignited anger. I started to stand up, but stopped, wincing in pain. My body apparently not wanting to cooperate.

"You still better rest," John warned. "Whatever

"Whatever she did to you took a great toll on you. Besides you probably have a bloody headache at the least right now." He then handed me a Tylenol.

"Take this and Hermione left some liquid medicine or another. She said it would help." He said, slightly shrugged. I swatted his hand away, sending the medicine flying.

"I'm not taking some stupid medication. Besides, I'm fine now." I said, making an effort to get up but failing.

John sighed. "Just rest, okay?I already phoned your parents that you'll be staying the night here."

"What was Hermione doing here?" I asked.

"Well, she said she had a case for you. As soon as you were up to it of course but-" I was already then beginning to get up, though.

"Sherlock, stay put!" He said, forcing me back down on the couch.

"I'm fine!" I retorted, and did a feeble attempt against him, but I already knew that I was losing considering John was twice of me in muscle and bulk.

"No, you're not. You're staying here for the night and not moving from that couch and that's final!" John said, breathing heavily. I slumped in defeat, skulking as I was too tired to retaliate or put up much of a fight.

"We can talk to her in the morning and start this bloody case tomorrow. It's not like she'll be leaving anytime soon." He added.

"Fine, but we're leaving tomorrow morning for her house. Got it?" I asked.

"It's a deal," John replied.

 **Hermione POV**

I sighed, I don't know why I was asking for help with this case, especially from _him._ It's not like Sherlock could actually help much on this; he was a muggle and even if I could break the state of secrecy to explain magic to him I'm don't think he would actually believe it. Sherlock was the most muggle person I had ever known, even when we were kids he was like that, always logical and articulate about every aspect of everything. He never believed in monsters under your beds or the tooth fairy, and unless proven to him somehow he wouldn't believe you in the slightest. You practically had to shove facts in his face to get him to believe anything. If he actually agreed to this case it would tedious, to say the least, to try to get him enough details so that he could solve some aspect of it, but not enough that he would ever be suspicious about it, or about me. It was already bad enough when he saw that video of me when Iw as younger, I wondered if he still remembered it or he had deleted it from his mind.

I shuddered, I certainly hadn't deleted it from my mind. I could still remember his face of sick intrigue and confusion and how he looked at me that day, that still made me shudder. I remembered everything, how Charlotte laughed, how I went home crying, and how I never talked to him again. That was probably one of the worst days of my life, and that's a lot to compete with now. I still don't know what Sherlock thought of me now, apparently things hadn't changed that much, though.

The doorbell rang and a rather sulking and sharp-nosed Sherlock and a rather irritated and sleep deprived John were at the doorstep. "if you want my help then you're to have to explain quickly. Five minutes is my maximum." Sherlock said abruptly and entered without me even saying a word in protest.

John rolled his eyes before turning to me. "Do you have any-

"The coffee machine will be to your left in the kitchen," I said. John eyed me gratefully before quickly heading to the kitchen.

"Explain. Now." Sherlock said, sitting crossed legged.

I took a deep breath in, not knowing exactly where to start with this. "Have you ever heard of Charles Finnigan?"

"No, why would I?" Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed.

I took a deep breath in again, of course, he wouldn't know. The muggle newspapers wouldn't publish anything about him. The ministry had been smart enough to erase all memories of people who had seen it, not to mention they removed the body before anyone could catch news of it. Not a single muggle new outlet (even in the paper) could be made about it. As far as the muggles knew, John Finnigan to their belief never existed in the first place. I dug out of my pocket then and pulled out the article from the daily prophet.

"Where did you get the article?" Sherlock asked, trying to deduce what news outlet it was from.

"I have my sources," I said bluntly.

"Well, it seems simple enough. He was shot dead, case closed. Track the footsteps of the weapon, from the sounds of it, it mostly sounds like a suicide. Next time bring something actually exciting as I'm a very busy person." He said, getting up to leave.

"Wait, that's not all," I said.

"Go on then, what is there going to be a lost bunny as well in this?" He asked sarcastically.

I huffed in annoyance. "There was no murder weapon.

"Simple, poison."

"No traces or any poison, or any failure of his organs prior to his attack."

"What do you mean to his attack? You said there was no weapon involved." Sherlock said.

"There was no gun involved." I corrected him. I then dug out an old muggle photo the Ministry had given me.

"This is him, in fact, taken the day before for his renewal of his driver's license," I said.

"And this is how we found him," I said, pulling out another photo.

I shuddered when I looked at the photo. His body was found like this, mauled and twisted in ways that were excruciatingly painful to look at, his head snapped back and his jaw clenching his forehead. Obviously, these were all done before rigour mortise could set in, while he was still somehow alive. Deep gashes were everywhere on the body, along with deep crimson coloured bruises and strange markings from various spells. The most frightening thing, though, was the lighting shaped scar in the centre, a deep etching not that unlike of Harry's. I shuddered at the thought, I didn't think Voldemort would ever venture this close to muggle territory, but if he was given a reason to...

Sherlock stared at it intently, looking over every detail as if physically trying to burn it into his mind. Watching him do it was frightening in its own self. I had never seen someone stare at something with such a hard outlook, and it was hard to read what was going on in his mind. There was definitely an intrigue there, but something else too, fear, fascination? Either way, it was fascinating to watch. I shook my head, even after all these years, I suppose I was still entranced by it, by him. I guess some parts of me never grew up.

He then looked up to me and wordlessly handed me back the photo. "I'll take the case."

"You'll what?" John said, completely confused.

"You heard me, I'll take it." He said quickly, returning back to his snide self.

"I'll be leaving now." He said, getting up. He then winced, the sides of his stomach were still clearly aching.

"You didn't take the medicine I gave you, didn't you?" He scowled in reply.

"I don't need your bloody witch doctor medicine." He said, getting up before faltering and again and nearly falling to the ground.

"Sherlock, I'm telling you it will help a lot with the pain. After all, what use are you if you can't even stand properly without wincing? Also taken that Tylenol too for good measure." I said, noticing how he was now rubbing his temples.

I'm not taking it." He said, and got up again, shuffling towards the door, falling nearly again before John caught him.

"I'll make sure he takes it," John said, and I smiled gratefully. They then left and I sighed. This was going to be a long summer.

 **Sherlock POV**

When we got back to John's place I begrudgingly took the 'medicine' that Hermione had given to John. Though to call it medicine was doubtful as I couldn't recognise the brand name, not to mention the suspicious glass bottle it came in and the overall odd appearance of the liquid. I took a large swig of it, instantly blanching and regretting it. It tasted like a cross between mothballs found in retirement homes, decaying flowers, and chalk. The texture was a mixture of mucus and sand. I immediately took a swig of water to wash out the grittiness, grimacing and slightly fearing the aftertaste.

"I thought you weren't going to take it," John said, slightly huffing in annoyance.

I continued to grimace as I took another swig of water. "I bloody hope she isn't trying to poison me." John chuckled.

"So, why did you take the case?" John asked, sitting on the couch.

"Simple. It was intriguing enough, and it's not like we have any other cases.

"That's not what you told Hermione. Besides you did have that case that your brother sent-"

"We've already discussed this before, I don't take cases from my brother. Besides, I already figured it out, it was child's play. The drugs were clearly Madam Red's. She had hidden them in the botany tower which was looked over by her sister. Sister thought it was fertiliser, fed it to the plants. Long story short, that's how little Tommy got an over intoxication of cocaine in her system from eating carrots." I said simply.

"You could have told him that you know. Instead of having this stupid complex with him. You know he has my number too now." John said annoyed.

"I can't be bothered with cases like that. Besides, he knows I already figured it out as he already had too. He's just taunting me, wanting me to play his little game." I said.

"Well next time he can bother you instead of blowing up my phone," John said irritated.

"Not my issue my brother wants to manipulate people," I replied.

John sighed. "Still, though, you were about to leave when she was talking about the case. Why the change of heart?" John asked. I shrugged in reply.

"I was feeling generous this morning," I said sarcastically.

"You never feel generous. What was the photo about? What made you so interested in it?" John insisted.

I hesitated, not wanting or knowing exactly how to explain my intrigue with it. The case seemed so familiar, the bruises, the markings, the unexplained details of it all. It was just the perfect type of mystery for me, enough details that it was sensical, not enough to make it too easy. It was both mentally stimulating and nonboring, plus most people couldn't solve it. I wasn't most people, though, and I needed something like that to prove it.

"Maybe because of the client?" John guessed innocently, though he was smirking.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Well it is her, and you *ahem* do have a history with her." He said. I laughed, though it came out cold and hollow.

"By history do you mean less of a year when we both were only in third grade? We were children John, barely counts for anything. How could you even call that history? Perhaps once we had been friends, but that was a very long time ago. People change." I said, bitterly.

"Sherlock-" John began.

"I only took the case because it intrigued me. That's all." I said, making my words final.

"Okay, you win," John said putting his hands up.

"But by the way, your mother was telling me a lovely story," John said.

"Oh, care to tell me then?" I said, rolling my eyes.

"Yes, in fact, it was over a certain costume." My blood drained from my face, instantly knowing where this was heading.

"It was in fact over a certain Peter Pan costume. Now imagine that." John said, and he simply smiled.

 **Author's Note**

I am so sorry I'm publishing late again! I love writing again though, and especially love John (he's probably my favourite to write in mainly because he has probably the most heart). Honestly it's so much fun to do the mixed emotions both ends are having and I hope to play it up more as the chapters progress, but for now you're left with this. I hope this isn't too short (it's not too long compared to other chapters I've written) but I also hope you do enjoy it. Please leave suggestions and other reviews! I do really enjoy reading them aand thank you all for helping me get this far.


	3. Mysteries and More

**Author's Note  
** Only in an alternate universe do I own Sherlock and Harry Potter (duh).

 **Chapter 3. Mysteries and More**

 **John POV**

Sherlock the next day woke me up promptly at 6:00 in the morning so we could start working on the case. He was of course in his usual energetic, almost psychotic mood, acting not unlike that of a child on Christmas morning. "Do you have to wake me up so early?" I complained, rubbing my eyes.

The one thing I always hated about this time of year was the fact that Sherlock somehow never slept, staying up until midnight, only to start working at 3:00 AM. This, of course, would be fine for me except for the fact that he also thought that notion that I should also run on no sleep as well. "at least he let me sleep in until 6" I thought to myself.

"Well, I tried to wake you up at 5 but I thought better of it considering the last time." He said promptly. I smirked, remembering how I had given him a black eye because I thought he was a burglar.

"Sherlock, how long have you been up? Please tell me you actually did get a normal amount of sleep."

"Well, I did get a good sixty minutes before I started researching." He said aloofly, I shook my head in disbelief.

"Let's just get this over with then," I grumbled before grabbing my coat and heading over to Hermione's.

 **XXX**

Hermione was unexpectedly awake at this hour too, from the looks of it, she hadn't slept much either. She was in fact rather awake, though the reasons how or why were beyond me. Clearly she wasn't used to staying up late, though, (unlike Sherlock the vampire) and had slight bags under her eyes and maybe one too many cups of coffee. Other than that, though, she seemed fine, even smiling slightly as if she had been expecting us at 6 in the morning.

"What are you doing here so early?" She asked, her voice slightly irritated but more curious.

"Sherlock's idea," I replied, still grumpy from lack of sleep and being woken up so early. I then immediately headed for the coffee pot.

"All right, you can start on the case, but please be quiet. My parents are sleeping and the last thing they want to do is wake up because the house is suddenly on fire thanks to you." Hermione said, shooting Sherlock a glare. Sherlock scoffed in reply.

Sherlock quickly took his place on the couch, sitting in his rather snooty and almost elegant manner that gave the illusion of him being much more mature and serious than in actuality. Certainly the look frightened most people more and made more people respect him for his age. I smirked, watching them from the kitchen. Sherlock, as usual, was sitting across from the couch from Hermione's in his usual position, or as I penned it, the 'Sherlock position'. This usually consisted of him sitting cross-legged on the edge of the chair or couch, hands clasped together right under the centre of his chin and having a rather focused and almost calculating detective like look on his face. I could tell ,though he was trying really hard, almost harder than usual to try to deduce from her. The way his eyes kept staring and kept calculating and almost never blinked, it was a bit unsettling to watch. I always hated when he did that, especially on me. It was always just so unnerving, like he could see every single detail and hidden things written upon my face, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Hermione, on the other hand, sat on the opposite couch, her legs also crossed, but she was in a much more relaxed stance than Sherlock. She wasn't completely relaxed exactly, but she seemed much less tense and unperturbed than Sherlock. If she was at all feeling uncomfortable from Sherlock's rude staring, she didn't let him know in the slightest, smirking slightly at his attempt. It almost seemed as if she was challenging him, betting him that he couldn't find out anything about her, and she was winning too, telling from how her smirk grew on her face. Her wild wisps of hair and bright eyes kept staring back at him, each seemed to be challenging each other in a silent language only the other knew.

I sighed, this was going to be a long summer if all their meetings ended up like this. They were acting exactly like how they were as kids, each challenging the other to a game no one else understood how to play. Only now both of them had gotten older, and no doubt more intelligent and more stubborn too. Both despite these things still knew each other to the core somehow, and that thought frightened the other the most.

"Sorry to interrupt this *ahem* session, but can we start now?" I asked. Both then blinked quickly, as if awakening from a dream.

"Sure where do you want to begin?" Hermione asked.

"With the victim first, Charles Finnigan."

She paused slightly. "What would you like to know about him?" She asked.

"What you're holding from me, you gave me only the basic details but I want to know all of them now." She quickly opened her mouth to object but Sherlock interrupted saying.

"There's no point in hiding any of it. I only prefer one side of mystery in my cases. Two makes for much too much bothersome time wasted." He put simply. Hermione clamped her mouth shut in frustration before opening it again.

"Fine. James Finnigan was a mu- ordinary man I guess in most ways. He was a businessman, a CEO of some big company. He didn't specifically sell anything, though, rather he did trade and stocks, and was very successful in it." She said.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said quickly. She let out another quip in frustration before continuing.

"Anyways, he went to a restaurant around noon, according to the reports. He went into the restaurant, went out of the restaurant, and then promptly disappeared. We traced a car that allegedly took him. He was soon found dead on the other side of town by the small cafe where you punched me."

"And when have all of these things transpired?" I asked.

"About three days now." She said, tallying on her fingers.

"A week? And no reports on it?" I asked, incredulous.

"Except apparently the odd one in her pocket," Sherlock said, motioning towards it.

"Now where exactly did you get a report like this?" He asked, inching forward towards her.

Hermione then blinked quickly, choosing her words carefully. "The people I work with... are very good at hiding these sorts of things. Anyways, it doesn't really matter where I got the information from, I can tell you, though, I guarantee my source is reliable. What matters now, though, is how he died." She said quickly.

"And why would that matter?" He asked haughtily.

"Because it then solves every other piece of the puzzle." She said.

"Get me the body," Sherlock then said, getting up.

"What?" I already showed you the pictures." Hermione said.

"Which are lovely and all for basic details, but if you want me to even have a clue on what I'm doing you're going to have to either steal the body or get someone from your 'sources' to bring the body." She grimaced.

"It's going to be hard to get a body here, you know. The body was taken all the way to London already to be examined." She said.

"You'll have to tell your people to bring it back then."

"Where are we even going to store a dead body?" She asked.

He smiled evilly. "I have my sources."

 **Hermione POV**

I called the phone number, half cursing this half muggle, half magic contraption the Ministry had given me. I shook my head in disbelief. If Ron's dad ever found that the Ministry was actually using muggle technology to create contraptions like this, well, to say the least, he was would ecstatic. I was even surprised when the Ministry had given me this, considering they had a reputation for considering muggles inferior, even in technology. The phone itself was ordinary looking, from what I could tell it looked like a muggle phone and it could do most things like a muggle phone like make phone calls, but it also had the feature of performing basic spells even if you didn't have your wand on you, and it conveniently also could locate places magic or not, like Hogwarts or Diagon Alley. The best part though was that the phone ran everywhere, and always worked, it worked on a mixture of solar energy and magic for power so it never really ran out.

I called Mrs. Princeton, the real head person on my case who was also technically in charge of me. At least it seemed that she was in charge of me and my actions. We had never actually met, I had only seen her in the pictures in the Daily Prophet on the occasion and briefly when I had met Slughorn when I got the case. I had the vague idea though that she did not have an akin liking to me, probably due to the fact that asides that I was only fourteen, I was also a muggle born. Both of which in the wizarding world don't work in my favour.

"Mrs. Princeton?" I whispered.

"Yes, Ms. Granger?" Her voice sounding, even more, monotone and droning on the phone than I could have imagined.

"I was um, wondering if we could examine the body here-"

"The files we gave you should have been sufficient enough for it," She said quickly, her voice biting and cold.

"But I need to examine the body to confirm my thesis," I said.

"Do you even have the right conditions to store a body, much less of that of a dead and confidential muggle who know one knows about?" She asked accusingly. I took in a deep breath.

"I've gotten a hold of a morgue which will allow me to use it for a few hours." I lied. I hoped Sherlock was right about his 'reliable' sources.

"And how did you acquire such a thing?" I could picture her suspicious face through the phone.

"I have my sources, please if I'm correct I think I can solve this. I'll let you have the body back with the rightful family. Just give me an hour with it, two at the most."

There was then a minute of silence and I could imagine her musing it over. Finally, she spoke. "You are an interesting for a mud blood, I'll even admit that you seem smarter than most mud bloods, of course, you're nothing compared to purebloods but you could suffice for your kind. Don't get me wrong, you still disgust me but I do I agree to have the body sent over there for your disposal. Text me the address and we'll send it over." She said, and then promptly hung up.

I sighed in relief, letting out a breath I didn't even know I was holding in. I was relieved, too relieved to even be bothered by the mud blood thing. After all, I was used to people calling me by that by now, I was used to people underestimating me for it. By now most purebloods used it directly or indirectly at me, some more obvious with the speaking of it than others. I mean don't get me wrong, not all purebloods were bad, the Weasley's family were wonderful but they seemed to be an anomaly in the pureblood community. It just seemed I suppose more likely to come from those ancient family lines. I shook my head, I really hoped Sherlock was right.

 **XXX**

"Luckily my father's out in Zimbabwe for another expedition, but my mum will be home in two hours, and by the time she comes back this place better look untouched and clean," Molly said quickly.

"Is this you lab?" I asked curiously.

"Me? No. This is Dad's. He never really uses it now of course, too busy with all his trips all over. Mainly, in fact, it's used to store all his junk and other tools that he refuses to donate. Sherlock uses it now, though ever since he got banned from using his room as a lab when he set the house on fire for the third time." She said, chuckling under her breath.

I looked around the room. The room was mainly made of stainless steel and it shone brightly with the fluorescent lights on the top lighting it. On the sides of the room, there were sinks along with other various medical tools and other scientific things. Laying in the centre was the examination table, with Finnigan's body, and on the edges were dissecting tools I don't even know existed. I was never really exposed to any medical tools, I stopped having doctor's appointments once I started going to Hogwarts and at Hogwarts we for sure never learned about any anatomy or anything like that. The only tools, in fact, that I remotely knew were the dentist tools my parents had, but even then I didn't know them that well.

"Thanks, Molly," I said.

Sherlock soon went over to the table to examine it, and I decided to hang outside the room. Unlike Sherlock, I could still never stand to look at overly gory sights, not to mention the stench of the body was terrible. I also hated dead bodies; I could get over the thought of looking at someone who had once been alive, who had actually known people, had walked around and been as much as alive as I was. It always just messed up my mind so much.

Molly stood beside me, staring at Sherlock and blushing slightly. I guess she still hadn't gotten over her crush on him, though what she could see was beyond me. She turned to me. "How are you?" She asked.

"I'm good," I said, both of us were now feeling rather awkward, but almost obligated to talk to the other.

"Well, I haven't seen you around here much, She said finally.

"How have you and Sherlock been?" I asked.

"Well, he's still the same and still won't give me even the time of days most times. But at least now he seems to acknowledge that I exist and will talk to me when he's in one of his gratuitous moods." She said, blushing.

"Well, he certainly hasn't changed," I hugged.

"He has, he certainly changed a lot when you left. He hardly talks to anyone now, always throwing himself into his work, whether it be these cases or even schoolwork. At school, he never talks to anyone, only at most arguing with Lestrarde or Jim, but other than John I doubt he has any real friends. He really keeps to himself most of the time, always working on something. Hardly anyone knows what he thinks about. You've changed a lot too, though." She said.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"People who are invisible to the world always see the most in people." She said meekly. "We certainly get more time to observe." She added.

"Hermione, take a look at this," Sherlock called. I sighed, giving Molly a sympathetic look before turning towards him.

 **Sherlock POV**

I pulled out my usual assortment of what John calls my 'decoration' tools, as he says I only use them to make myself seem much more sophisticated and cool than I really was. In reality, they did serve a purpose, but John just didn't care to know about their uses. That was fine by me anyways, it was much too bothersome to explain it to him. I pulled out a miniature magnifying glass, examining all the marks on the body. The body at least seemed consistent with Hermione's facts, it certainly had been sitting for a good while and based on the decomposition on it even though it was semi frozen matched the times, not to mention the mere stench matched it.

The man like Hermione said, had prior to the incident been in good health. He seemed to show no outward indication of any real health issues that would have killed him immediately, perhaps a slight gain in weight, a couple of grey hairs from ageing, but there was no sign of any chronic disease that would have caused to act out of line or anything due to desperation. Nor was there any other immediate diseases like a heart attack or a stroke happening to him. He was a man of older age, perhaps in his late forties to early fifties. He was starting to suffer from male pattern baldness from the receding hairline and greying of the hair, both of which he tried to cover up via dying his hair or having surgery to cover the bald spots. The clothing, of course, was still intact on him, and the suit still didn't have a wrinkle in sight, suggesting that it was often pressed and ironed. He was definitely a businessman then.

Telling from his clothes, I could also tell that he was financially successful, so there was no desperation from being bankrupt or anything either. He was married, so perhaps someone was threatening his wife or him, but that wasn't likely as the marriage was nearly a divorce anyways, telling how he frequently took off the ring and the way he had worn it down from anxiousness or overall anxiety. He also had a daughter, though, or at least I assumed so as there was a picture of a young girl in his wallet. It was an old picture, but I still recognised the girl in it, it was my old classmate, Charlotte, one of the richest, brattiest, girls ever to exist. I smirked, perhaps it was for the best that he died, at least then she might at least feel something other than pettiness. Still, I was professional enough to keep my cool, though the temptation of spitting on the body was still there.

"Any luck?" She asked.

"There's basic bruising to the body, but it was done after death to make it seem like a traumatic act that killed him. There is some serious maiming to the body, though considering the rigour mortise after left it so stiff like this. Other areas besides the chest are unaffected." I said.

"You don't have to make it sound so cold." She said.

"What do you want me to say? That he's secretly asleep, but with a little bit of pixie dust and a true love's kiss that he'll wake up? We're in a morgue for God's sake." I said sarcastically.

"What about the markings, were they before or after trauma?" She asked, pointing at the odd marks surrounding and on his chest, swirled and spiralled like a lightning storm, all deriving to the place where whatever had shot him had taken place.

"I don't know, yet," I said, looking at them carefully.

I looked at each of the markings, each of the markings was varying in length, colour, severity, and even the depth on the body, some barely scratching the surface and others reaching down so deep you could even see part of the bone. All of them though shared the characteristic lightning bolt look. I couldn't tell when it had been inflicted on the body exactly, since because all of them had different degrees and slight variations it was hard to tell as the bruising wasn't accurate. I also couldn't cut up the body either (apparently Hermione's sources refused that) so I was only left to single external observances. I kept staring at them, looking at how some of them changed colours from a dark violet to a nearly pure white or even a slight tinge of red. The larger ones on the body seemed to be tracing the main veins that led to his heart, though I couldn't deduce much from that.

I growled in frustration; this body, this situation, it just had too many possibilities and variables. I needed to limit it down, I needed more answers to actually even have a clue on how to solve this. I needed his files on everything, I needed to live this man's life. I needed to know his average income, business reports, medicines he took, the kind of people he was involved with. I needed to know this person more than I knew myself, more than the man who laid before I knew himself. I needed all this information, and I suddenly grimaced at where I might get it.

 **Author's Note**

This was fun (but exhausting) to write. I loved the quick cameo of Molly, she probably won't play a large role in the story (sorry people) but I do like her as she seems a lot smarter and much more brave than she actually can appear at the first glance. I love the development she gets now in the BBC, even though I don't particularily ship her with him. Trying to describe the body probably was my favourite though (that came out a bit creepier than I like) but mainly because it's fun to write in this sort of older, more plot filled genre. Overall it was fun to write this out, and I'm thanking in advance all the people who actually take the time to read this. Also, please review!


	4. Sensibilities

**Author's Note  
** I don't own Sherlock/Harry Potter (duh).

 **Chapter 4. Sensibilities**

 **Sherlock POV**

"And you're asking for-"

"Files on John Finnigan, deposits from his banking account, receipts from places he's been, flight numbers, airlines. Any file picture, or piece of information on him from any moment before his death, I need." I repeated, irritated.

The officer glimpsed at me, his eyes clouded and I knew he was barely paying any consideration to a word I was saying. Even an idiot like Lestrade could have figured out that he wasn't taking me seriously at all. This only aggravated me more and was the reason I avoided working with them. I guess I should have expected it, though, we were at the police station where infuriatingly I was only treated as an ordinary child. I always hated working with the police and very often tried to avoid any of my cases with them. This, as a result, left me with fewer cases, but it also left me with fewer idiot adults who tried to treat me as inferior to them in intelligence. All the soldering adults here for some reason thought they knew what they were doing. The reality though was that they were just too stubborn to admit to being complete idiots, even less so admitting to being outsmarted by a teenager.

"And exactly how old are you?" He asked questionably.

"I'm thirteen. Look, is that even relevant to the information that you are currently withholding-"

"And your name is?" He cut off.

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. That is completely irrelevant to the details and matter at hand. It isn't exactly like you're doing anything with the files exactly, at most they're just taking up storage space. If you insist, though to continue to act like the idiot adults that think they know what they're doing then-"

"So you're not a relative of Mr. Finnigan?" He interrupted again.

"No, but-"

"Then why are you asking for personal, confidential information that would have little to no use to you-"

"I do have a use for it!" I shouted, slamming my hands down on the table.

Hermione and John jumped at the sudden noise. I then took a deep breath, hoping my face wasn't as flushed as it felt. I then tried to maintain my boiling temper. John gave me a wide-eyed stare and Hermione, Hermione was just observing me, waiting for the next person to make the next move.

I took in another deep breath. "As I've been trying to tell you, but have been oh so politely interrupting me, I do have a use for the files. As much as I love trying to steal from the occasional financially deceased businessman. I am trying to gain this information to solve a case for my client. Now you being the idiots you are, are stopping me from solving this case by withholding this information. Not only is this bothersome, for me, it is also limiting me to do my job. Therefore, I can't complete it satisfactorily for my client."

"And this 'client is a relative to Mr. Finnigan?"

"No, but-"

"Then I can't legally give you this information. I'm sorry." He said monotonically, his voice devoid of emotion.

He then leant forward and motioned towards me to lean in. I rolled my eyes but decided to do so, playing into his little charade. "Look, you seem like a decent kid, a smart one even for your age. And I get you're trying to pretend to solve this case to impress your girlfriend over there-" He said, gesturing towards Hermione.

"But bothering policemen with this sort of stuff is just bothersome for us, and it leaves us with less time to work on these cases because we have to deal with people like you. Besides, there isn't much about the man anyways. He only died of a heart attack. Case closed. Now a child like you shouldn't be sticking your head into this sort of thing. You'll have plenty of time if you decide to be a policeman or something when you're an adult. For now, just let the grownups do their job and go enjoy your time off." He whispered.

I suddenly couldn't control my temper and I could feel myself fuming. "Just a child?!" I shouted.

"Sherlock," John warned, putting a hand on me, but it was too late. I had been waiting for an excuse like this all day and had been dying to do something about it.

"For your information I am ten times the officer you will ever be and I'm not 'just a child'. Unlike you for one I don't spend my days trying to think I'm doing important things because I actually do important things, not stuff myself with doughnuts 'til I'm sick. Allow me to demonstrate where my important work has gotten me to." I said.

"Don't do it, Sherlock," John said.

"Oh come on, I've been dying to do it all day," I said. I then turned to the officer.

"Thank you for allowing the perfect opportunity."

I then began to deduce him. "You're a diabetic who will probably stay a diabetic as you still have a tendency for all the sweet things in life. What I mean by sweet things in life is that often consumption of doughnuts, telling from the many crumbs on your collar. Also, the state of diabetes is not early telling from your eyes and your knuckles. You're prone to heart attacks and have already had 2 in a year. Probably why you're not in the force, why you're not the ones who actually have the useful job of chasing the criminal because they could easily outrun you considering your poor health and weight. You're just stuck with the useless and pointless work of filing all the cases that you never actually get to do. You have two kids, but never get to see them because of your ex-wife. You're been divorced for about 2 years now, but haven't remarried or are even remotely dating. Your sister was an alcoholic, but so was your mother. That's why you always refuse to drink, instead, you indulge on the doughnuts You do have that stupid rehab sticker though on your desk, very convenient. You are just a miserable, fat, and single man who's best job in life is to be a desk job and pretend that you are an officer when you're really just an idiot withholding information." I said, finishing.

 **Hermione POV**

"You're an idiot," I said.

"He had it coming for him. It wasn't my fault-" Sherlock began again.

"Couldn't you have at least said it a bit more polite?" I interrupted.

"What? You wanted me to say please and thank you at the end?" I rolled my eyes.

"You know there is a thing that exists that's called not being a git 100% of the time," I said.

"Oh please, at least I didn't tell him I knew that the reason his wife divorced him was because of the three affairs he had been having." He said.

"Oh, such a hero you are," I said, pretending to wipe a fake tear.

We entered the cafe, the place, as usual, was to the brim with people. The sweet scents of fresh pastries and coffee still simmered through the air, and I was glad for the air conditioning. We all then sat down in a small booth and I went up to order some croissants and coffee for myself and John. I then got a call and quickly exited the cafe, dreading what would come next because I knew who the number was.

I meekly answered the phone. "Hello?"

Instantly two of the most politically powerful wizards apparated in front of me, and I could feel my heart beginning to beat like a drum. This couldn't be good if they apparated all the way here to see me, and in such a muggle populated place too. The two wizards who then stood before me were none other than Cornelius Fudge, the current head of the Ministry of Magic and Anthea Princeton, the head of the Magical Caring of Mysteries department. Both of them were very powerful in the wizarding world and were in charge of my case. This couldn't be good at all.

Fudge gave me a kind, but disappointed look, with a weak smile that only was on his lips. He had attempted to wear muggle clothing, but it looked odd on him, unnatural almost, like just a costume. He wore a black business suit, which like most wizards did not match at all with the muggle attire right now. It was also terribly hot outside and the suit looked long and thick, and even only standing ten minutes in the sunlight he was beginning to perseverate across his forehead.

Mrs. Princeton on the hand had full on had a beaming smile of hatred across her face. The look actually frightened me, it reminded me of a snake ready to catch its prey. I had known she had probably already been looking for an excuse to get me off this case, She had the reputation of hating to work with others, and I didn't think many factors helped in my case either. She was I would admit though quite pretty, and she exerted regal and class from her. Her finely straight, neat long black hair was put tightly in a bun, perfectly aligned in the back. Her cat-like green eyes stared at me also but with disgust, as if looking at gum on the bottom of her shoe. She then smirked slightly at my expression and I began to dread this even more.

"Having fun with your little friends in the cafe?" She sneered.

Fudge then began to frown disapprovingly. "Hermione when I said to give your full effort on this-"

"I know sir," I said quickly, blushing, though I don't know if it was from the heat or not.

"He's helping me on the case," I said promptly.

Princeton began to laugh, her voice even more snobby than I could imagine. "How could a filthy muggle help on this? Clearly she's not qualified as she is calling for help from a lowly muggle. A filthy non-magical-" She then began to rant.

"He's not just a muggle!" I shouted. I took a deep breath in.

"He's good, really good. He's known in the muggle world for his case solving, and he's a close friend. Believe me, on my honour if I didn't trust him with this I would have never shown him this in the first place." I said.

"Hermione I didn't think you would go-" Fudge began.

"Honestly, he doesn't know anything about the magical components of the case. I'm only using him mainly to identify the muggle part of it as I'm not familiar with it that much, he's helping like the time of the body, any connections he might have. My knowledge of those things are limited and he's been helping me on that part." I said.

"How much does he know about this?" Fudge asked.

"Well, he does know the state of the body before the spell was performed on him, but he doesn't know that cause of the bruising and the other markings on his chest along with his heart failing was because of the spell on him. We have tried to access some other files so we could find out if he had any wizard connections, but the muggle police are withholding them." I said.

"Hm, we can rearrange access to the muggle files. As for your so-called friend." He said, looking towards them.

"Be cautious about what they learn about this case. I would hate to have to clear his mind of this summer completely." He said, and though his tone was warm and kind, the meaning behind it was as cold as ice.

"I understand, sir," I said.

"Good. I'm impressed by your progress, Hermione. Keep up the good work." He said, and with that they both disappeared from the street, seemingly never there in the first place.

 **John POV**

"Who do you think she's talking to out there?" I asked, looking out the window. I couldn't see them very clearly, partly because Hermione's back was towards us and her bushy hair was blocking most of my view.

"Don't know and don't care," He said, idly stirring my coffee. I rolled my eyes at him.

"You could at least pretend to, you know," I said.

I stared out at the at the people she was talking to. There were two of them; one seemed to be an older gentleman in a business suit with a kind smile across his face. The other one was a rather younger woman who was dressed pristinely and had rather sharp features, as she seemed to be trying to bore bullet holes into Hermione. Whether or not Hermione knew or not I didn't know, though, but she seemed at least calm from here. They then walked away and Hermione began to walk back in.

Sherlock then looked up. "That would be lying, though, don't you want me to be honest?" He asked.

When Hermione came back, she was slightly sweating, but otherwise overall ecstatic. "We can get the files now. We can go back to the police sta-"

"No need," Sherlock said.

"What?" Hermione and I said both incredulously. After the fit Sherlock threw to try to get those files, at least I thought he would actually want it now, considering how much trouble he went through the first time. But no, now the files were completely irrelevant. How did that even make remote sense?

"We both saw the body, and as that seems the only actual evidence-" He began.

"What do you mean? We haven't even seen the files yet!" Hermione yelled.

"Exactly. The dolt of a policeman may have been an idiot, but he was intelligent for an idiot, or at least in a sense he tried not to appear to be an idiot. He clearly did know enough about the case, and he also mentioned that the man died of a heart attack. Either he was bluffing, which isn't likely considering his position or the policemen have it wrong. That then leads to the fact that the files could be faulty evidence as well." He said.

"But the files can't be a farce!" She said.

"So you're saying he did die of a heart attack then and you knew the whole time?" Sherlock asked.

"No, but-" she began.

"Then you're saying that you then knew how he died and you're just withholding it from me?" Sherlock asked accusatorily. His eyes were steely and he bore into Hermione.

"No!" She slammed her hands down on the table, shaking the coffee slightly. Her face was slightly warm and she was breathing heavily.

"What I was saying was that files, accurate or not are some form of evidence, and despite your suspicions I'm still collecting them." She said, and with that she stormed straight out of the coffee shop, her steps hard and deliberate, her gaze as cold as ice, and her hair was electric from rage.

"Nice going," I said sarcastically.

"She's hiding something from us," Sherlock muttered, his eyes focused into deep concentration. He was still staring intently at her as if trying to decipher something only he could find out.

"Just give it a rest, Sherlock. Remember she's the one with the actual case. " I said.

He continued to ignore my responses, though. "Has she ever mentioned who her sources actually were?" He asked. He was still staring intently at her.

I considered it for a moment. "No, probably because it's a private organisation," I said.

"And how did she become affiliated with a private organisation that has the power to access these files?"

"Sherlock if you don't trust her-" I began.

"Oh, I do trust Hermione slightly, at least for now. I don't trust her sources, though. Did you notice how upset that one woman was with the ugly dress and the atrocious cat like features?"

"You were actually noticing them?" I asked.

"Observing, not stalking unlike you. Anyways, obviously the topic must have been us and the people with her didn't seem happy with her decision. Now, there must be a sort of underlying secret then in this case that they didn't want Hermione to re-"

"Oh give it a rest Sherlock! They probably aren't happy with Hermione because she wasn't supposed to share the case with us!" I exclaimed.

"Even if she did have some sort of 'magical secret' why one earth would she tell us? Besides, you snooping isn't going to get you anywhere closer to it, if anything, you're just going to make her angrier. If she isn't going to tell us now, she's definitely not going to tell us anytime soon with you and your snooping ways!' I said.

"I'm just curious," Sherlock said semi-innocently.

"Just curious up my arse," I grumbled.

 **Hermione POV**

I ran hastily over to the police station, half to get the files quickly and half to get out my overall frustration. The git, why did he always rub me the wrong way? Why was it always him that knew exactly how to get under my skin like this? It was like his life enjoyment was to see how he could annoy me in a such a way to drive me insane. Even if he was helpful in this I wasn't sure how much more of his intolerable snooping I could handle. Certainly his 'gleaming personality' wasn't helping much with this.

I sighed, at least for now they wouldn't have to erase his memory. He was safe for the moment, and that's what really mattered. Even if he was intolerable I would never wish that on him, his one thing that actually seemed to matter to him was his mind, and to take that away from him was far too cruel. I knew the techniques from experience, did have side effects on normal muggles, and I couldn't even imagine what it would do to his mind, especially considering how much they would have to erase. I couldn't possibly even fathom the damage that could happen to his utterly arrogant but brilliant mind. No, I would never let them take that from him.

Still, Sherlock needed to stop snooping around in my business, because I knew especially it would be a lot harder if he kept suspecting something. He was already suspicious, I was sure of it. Now he must be especially suspicious of me considering all the poking and prodding. He was trying to get me to break. It was just so frustrating, didn't he understand he was just making it harder for himself? No, he wouldn't know that because he didn't know the consequences of finding out the truth about me or the people I worked with. He was only looking for the answer to stop his curiosity, he wasn't looking farther ahead. He wouldn't know the damage at all.

"Here are the files." The policeman said grumpily. I with a jolt realised it was the same policeman Sherlock had insulted and deduced from. I cringed; I secretly had been hoping I wouldn't have gotten him.

"Look I'm sorry about Sherlock. He's always been so-"

"Yeah, yeah. Save your sob story for someone else. Also, tell your organisation to call in advance next time so I don't have my boss yelling at my back, and have to deal with you insolent twits." He said grumpily. I nodded, quickly collecting all the files and papers. Even if they were only the muggle version they might come in handy, I was sure of it.

I looked at my phone and realised I got a mysterious number calling me. I didn't pick up, though, who knows who it was? I got the call again, though, and ignored it. Finally, the mysterious number began to text.

 **Come to my house if necessary.  
** **-SH**

I smirked, he even initialled his texts. How only Merlin, though did he get my number? He must have stolen it from me at some point, the nerve he had. Another text came up.

 **And if unnecessary come anyways  
-SH**

I smirked, running all the way back to the neighbourhood.


	5. Car Dealers

**Author's Note  
** I do not own any of the Sherlock or Harry Potter stories/ideas as I am not British enough for it.

 **Chapter 5. The Trouble with Car Dealers**

 **Hermione POV**

I stood on the patio, for some reason almost expecting for the door to magically open for me. I shook my head, chuckling at myself. I really had been spending too much time in the wizard world. Sherlock's house more or less looked the same to me. There were only slight adjustments here or there, a small chipped roof tile, a new paint job on one of the sides of the houses, some new bushes in the yard. Other than that, though, it was inherently the same house I had seen when I was a third-grader. It was as if stepping back into a portal into my childhood. At the same time, though it wasn't like that either. The house just seemed so much inherently smaller than I remembered, and a lot colder too. Perhaps though that was because I had grown up so much, and the house hadn't grown with me, it had stayed trapped in time and only was there for nostalgia.

I smiled, fondly reminisced all the memories I did have in the house. All the countless experiments we did, all the lazy days we just spent in his room talking about random things and staring at all the science posters on his wall. I had practically lived in that house more than my own, making Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Holmes a second family to me. Now that I was here, I didn't know what to think. What would Mrs. Holmes think about this? What could I even think about this, about him? All those childhood things had he disregarded them like I tried to do? Did he truly just think those things we had were only a childhood thing that could never last?

The door then opened and Mrs. Holmes answered, though at first, I didn't recognize her. She had gotten so much older than the last time I have seen her, yet there was still a warmness and a gentleness in her eyes that I did miss. "Oh, Hermione dear. I didn't expect you to be-"Suddenly I was grasped by the hand and dragged inside, barely able to get an apologetic glance at Mrs. Holmes before being taken all away to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's room had turned into a hodge podge of a large science lab and a childhood bedroom. Some of the same posters still were on the walls, like that of Einstein and Tesla, but for the most part the walls had either been converted to shelves to carry the numerous books, test tubes and other scientific equipment, obscure body parts with models, and strange scientific things that I didn't really care to know about. The room as I had suspected was a chaotic mess; on the floor were mountains of papers and files of various things from how to pick a lock to the types of dirt found in New Hampshire. There were also manuscripts and other assorted knowledge, all in aimless piles across the floor. Red strings danced around the room, weaving with each other, attached to the red strings were tack which also connected to the wallpapers Sherlock had hung up. This woven string of red made it nearly impossible to walk in the room without tripping, and I did many times. Besides the mess, there was very little room for much else. There was only a small drawer filled to the brim with other complicated things, his bed which was surprisingly clean of everything, and a table which contained his old computer along with many chemicals that I could only assume were very toxic. It was hard to tell what the actual table looked like though, as it covered with a clutter of tools he used, from blow torches to microscopes.

John was also in the room, though he seemed much more unperturbed by the mess and clutter. Sherlock sat in his chair, one of the few actual places that were clear. I stood beside John, trying not to trip on any of the red strings as I made my way through.

"You're late." He said, turning his back towards me.

"I was grabbing the files. How did you even get my number?" I asked.

"I took it from you when you weren't looking," He said simply, as if talking about the weather. Normally I would have been annoyed, but I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to care about it.

"I got these, you can at least look at them you know," I said. He turned around and scanned them quickly before tossing them all around the room.

"Useless," He said.

"You didn't even look at it!" I said, quickly snatching the papers and trying to collect them from the floor. After giving him an annoyed glance I shoved the papers into his lap, and he actually did look at them, his eyes slightly widening.

"But how can he exist to be in two places at once?" He whispered.

"What?" I asked.

"It says here that Finnigan was at the diner at 2:00 here, but also his body was found at 2:05 in the alleyway, dead. Now, between the two destinations is at the most a twenty-minute drive to his location. Even if you broke all of the speed limits the fastest you could get there would be in 10. How could he possibly exist in two places at once?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowed. I checked the paper, and sure enough, he was right. It seemed he had existed twice.

He then got up quickly. "Get out."

"What?" I asked.

"I said get out!" He shouted and shoved me out of the door. He then dragged John and threw him out too, much to his loud protests and cries they were pointless. Sherlock then slammed the door shut, leaving us both on the outside and very miffed.

"He's going to his mind palace again," John said, glaring at the door.

"What's his mind palace?" I asked curiously.

"It's some sort of memory trick, he explained it to me once. Supposedly you can remember anything that you need to, and somehow find an organization for storing memories. I don't know if actually works or he just uses as an excuse to be alone. Either way, HE GETS WHAT HE WANTS!" He said, shouting the last part.

"How long does he usually do this?"

"I don't know really. It can be for five minutes or even days. The longest time he stayed in his room was three, and the only reason he came out was because I physically broke the door down to make sure he was okay. He was fine by the way, well, he was annoyed I had broken his door down." He said.

"Hm, usually he gives a bit more warning when he does it, though, although he did seem in a bad mood already. Odd since he usually is in a generally good mood when he's on cases; he lives for them. I guess sometimes though he can even hate something to an extent." John said, shrugging.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait out here," I said, crossing my arms.

 **Sherlock POV**

I took a deep breath in, John and Hermione probably weren't delighted with being locked outside. I needed them outside, though, their thoughts and mannerisms were too distracting (not that they couldn't change because they didn't realize that I could sense them thinking) and I needed the silence of a single mind. I shook my head, John had never really believed in the concept of the mind palace, and I can't blame him for that as many don't understand it either. In truth, it had taken me a long time to master it, and I probably wouldn't have if not for the help Mycroft was in teaching it. If the one thing Mycroft and I did have in common was that our minds, both worked similarly in pursuit of knowledge and logic. Mycroft was always the more brilliant one, though. For a long time, I thought I was an idiot. We both thought I was an idiot until we met other children my age. I then realized I was smarter than most but never was as gifted as Mycroft. I never could be possibly better than him in that sense.

I entered my mind palace. The thing that was probably the most difficult to comprehend about the mind palace was the thought of your memories, abstract things, being actual physical things. Most people who had a mind palace would conjure memories as small physical things, say a dress they liked, or a CD album to something that was to their favourite band. It was simpler to recall memories if the physical thing attached to it had some emotional connection to it. My mind palace was different, or at least in the sense that the connections weren't really emotional. My memories were stored in doors, each of them unique in size, shape, design, and none of them being the same as the other. It was easier to recall on them, but, as a result, there were an endless number of infinity hallways, and navigating it could be difficult.

I sighed, looking at all the memories floating out throughout my mind, I would have to sort those memories in somewhere. I couldn't just have them floating throughout my mind palace, not only was it distracting, but it was a problem as then the memories could become my main focus since they weren't locked up. There were many drifting around, though, I hadn't been in my mind palace a while since it takes a while to organise one's own mind. I just hadn't had the time to it, between school and the start of summer there wasn't a real leisure time I could take. Besides, I always hated putting the memories away. It was tedious work that was boring and laborious, and most times the memories were just filler things that I could delete from my mind. Still, I did need to go through my mind, and it might help me find relevant information in the case that I might have overlooked.

I furrowed my brows in concentration, how could he possibly exist in 2 places at once? The body had been found in that alleyway at 2:05 yet his ticket at the same time with his name was found somewhere else. There was no possible way you could exist in 2 places.I shook my head, there was no way to exist in two places at once. But to travel that quickly in two places, could it be possible? Could the attack and the killing happened almost synonymously and the body was somehow dragged to the other spot. How could one carry the body so quickly, though, and murder someone without being seen? How could one exist like a ghost, a name with the effect but nothing more?

I suddenly opened my eyes and smiled. Yes, that was it, the man was a ghost, or rather had someone be his ghost. To exist in 2 places at once, you needed someone else to be you, so you could disappear as a ghost.

 **Hermione POV**

He's been in there for four hours!" I screamed, banging my hands against the door. I was tired of standing out here, especially with whatever he was doing, and I wanted answers of some kind by now.

"I told you he's like this," John said, rolling his eyes, though he was annoyed too.

"I swear if he doesn't open the door this second I will break this door down and barge in there myself." I fumed.

"He's not usually like this, though," John muttered.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

John took in a deep breath, "Well, Sherlock in all aspects is a drama queen. He prides himself in showing off his prowess and having an excuse to be overly dramatic. These puzzles he spends practically every waking moment and revels in them. Ever since I've known him he's always lived for them. Generally, though he spends weeks on it, trying to draw it out as long as he can. He only goes to his mind palace really as a last resort, and even then it's at least a couple weeks until he does that. But now, after only a couple days on the case, he's already trying to speed it up and solve it already. Sherlock doesn't even seem to enjoy any of this. It's almost as if he hates the case." John said, shaking his head.

"It's because of me, isn't it? Does he still hate me for some reason? Doesn't he?" I asked.

"Well, Sherlock certainly doesn't hate you. Believe me, you know when Sherlock hates you, practically he makes you miserable in your life if he hates you. You saw how he was when he was annoyed, when he hates something it's pretty obvious. Sherlock is afraid of you."

"Afraid? What did I do to make him afraid of me?"

"Simple. You were kind to him in a world that treats him unkindly, that treats anyone that is different unkindly. You were a person who could stand ground with equal intelligence, and he didn't need to prove himself to you. You were perhaps the only person to understand him, and that is what he fears the most. He hates sentiment, only believing it to be a concept the weak minded fall to. He believes if he falls for it that he'll be weak minded and just ordinary, a nobody. He will be as ordinary as mankind, and he fears that the most. Being average for him would be devastating. He would only then be a freak, not a genius." John said solemnly.

"How do I make him trust me then? I don't want him to isolate himself like that. I don't want him to be alone." I said, and I realised I truly didn't.

I didn't want him to have that feeling of having to prove himself to everyone, that he is different and needed to be alone and secluded. He didn't need to prove himself to be unique and superior so that he couldn't get hurt by others. If he couldn't only see how many, even if few and far between, cared for him for who he was, not just his brain. Even if he could, though, would he care about those thoughts? Would he ever listen or believe them? Would he ever stop shutting out the world, even to those dear to him?

"I don't know, Hermione. He's just so lost in that big mind of his these days. Hardly comes out of it, it seems. I don't even know what he thinks about now." John said.

The door then opened and Sherlock appeared with a slight smirk on his face. "You can come in now," He said.

 **XXX**

Sherlock had taken down most of the old red strings and they lied scattered across the floor, weaving in their own sense a new sort of web. He had replaced the old ones with blue ones, which crisscrossed even more around the room. Sherlock conveniently stood in the centre of the room, evidently the only place you could stand without stepping on a string.

"Now there are three key witnesses in the case. The security guard for the man who was killed so he's no use to us. The waitress, but she has a sound alibi and the photographer." Sherlock said, clapping his hands together.

"The photographer? There was no one there taking photos," I said. He then handed me a small news article showing a picture of Finnigan in front of the diner.

"The photographer is a security camera?" I asked.

"And that thing is somehow going to talk to us?" John asked.

"Cameras can reveal much more than a person. For example, they always tell the truth and don't usually have ulterior motives. They also have the luxury of a perfect memory." He said, bringing his magnifying glass in on the newspaper.

I then looked at the zoomed in the license plate. "It's a license plate, it can tell us about the car and who owns it, but as for why he was in it-"

"According to the documents you gave me, his license number was J89257. Now the back of the license plate on that car is a bit fuzzy to make out, but it clearly starts with an X. Now it seems that man is indeed Finnigan so what would he be doing leaving the place twenty minutes early from the diner, and more importantly why would he be going alone in a cab without his bodyguard? What sort of business could he want to be doing alone?" I frowned, slightly confused.

"Well the man probably had a business transaction, the only problem being was the transaction probably wasn't pleasant or legal. The bodyguard though was later found in the restaurant in the back alley. There were 2 bullets in his head. There's not much help there, but-"

"There is a way though to contact the owner of the cab, though," He then whipped out his cell phone and began to call the dealership.

 **Author's Note**

Argh hi yes I'm updating again unfortunately I've been very busy travelling for the last few weeks, and I just started school but I'll be attempting to try to keep this! For all the people who have stumbled upon this thank you for reading this!


	6. The Trouble with Taxis

**Author's Note**  
I do not own the Sherlock/Harry Potter universe, at least for now...

 **Chapter 6. The trouble with Taxis**

 **Sherlock POV**

"I'm not sure I can you help you guys much. I mean I can give you the license plate for the car, and let you talk to the guy. But as far as I know your bosses are barking up the wrong tree. Ol' Mike has never done anything wrong, he's a good guy. None of the police has questioned him before either. Who are you kids anyways?"

I rolled my eyes, only half listening. At least the owner of the dealership seemed only half the dolt the police officer was, and certainly, he was at least smart enough to question us instead of just assuming I was trying here to prove something to my 'girlfriend'. I shuddered, the mere thought of one repulsed me. I did have to give him the benefit of the doubt, he still at least tried to treat us like adults instead of imbecile teenagers who only thought of fantasies and romance. Why did adults assume every one of us were like that, some of us had actual lives too you know. Perhaps it was because they wanted a feeling of superiority, especially the idiot ones who didn't have any control over their lives anyways.

Hermione stepped forward. "We work for a private organisation, not with the police. They take on gifted students for temporary internships, it's a cheap way to get money over the summer."

She then beamed an innocent smile before continuing. "Please sir, it would help an awful lot with the case."

The man smiled back, though his smile was sleazy and drunken, and I knew he hadn't been paying an ounce of attention to a word she was saying anyways. The git of a man didn't even bother to look up at her face, though the nerve he did think he had with Hermione. After five painstaking seconds of him staring at her, he finally beamed an overly charismatic smile before saying. "What details do you want?"

 **XXX**

"See, that wasn't so bad, I thought the man was actually sort of nice," Hermione said chirpily, quickly following the dealer behind. I caught the dealers glances at her and when he turned to look at me, I gave him a death glare. He then stopped looking at her and continued walking.

"John shrugged. "He's pretty sketchy Hermione,"

"Besides he's only being nice because of you, or rather your body."

She turned to look at me in disgust. "Why would you say that? Can't people be nice without being some scumball for some reason?"

"Well considering how long he was looking at your chest instead of your face I consider the latter," I said.

She shook her head in disgust. "At least I tried to be nice, and he is helping us even though his motives are bad. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from this Sherlock,"

"What? Sorry Hermione, but in case you haven't noticed I can't exactly become a woman on a command you know."

To this, she jabbed me with her elbow. "I was going to say the being police part, or you know, not being a git 100% of the time. Maybe even caring about what people say."

"I do care what people say, just not adults or idiots, or a combination of both." I retorted. She then rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"You think everyone's an idiot,"

"Hm, no. John isn't at least a failing of evolution. He has good enough grades to seem intelligent in this world. Molly is smart too apparently, though I could never tell as she talks less than a doorknob when I'm around. Though from her knowledge of the tools in the lab I could argue that she is, in fact, intelligent enough for me to listen to her if she ever talked."

"And me?" She asked, glancing innocently at me. I quickly flushed and turned away.

"You get the point," I said bitterly, storming off. Behind her, I could hear John snickering to himself.

The car dealer lead us to the cab. Like in the picture it was a black square of the car, an old ancient model of a car I had seen more commonly as a child's toy than an actual one on the road. It had the sort of feeling of a boxcar, with the classic 1800s styled wheels and overall angular appearance. The interior of the car was cleaned out, though, it didn't even have a small memorabilia to mark it was anyone's car in the first place. The only evidence of stuff being in the car once was the clear outline of dust on the dashboard, where could I make out vague shapes of things I could only guess at. I then checked the compartments, they were all empty as well, but the doors of it had been slammed shut frequently and there were jarring marks of struggle in the car, most likely from anxiety. All of the evidence in the car, though, had seemingly vanished into thin air.

I turned to the dealer. "Can we speak to the driver of the car?"

"Mike? Sure I can ask if he's in today,"

He then reached over to the telephone behind him and called the front desk. He spoke a few words over the phone before shaking his head. "Sorry kid, Mike's out. Apparently, he has some appointment or another. We'll tell you if he's in later today, though." He said.

"Thank you," John muttered and Hermione then quickly skittered out of sight, not wanting to be caught in his line of view. I couldn't help but smirk at her now timid nature. I would have almost laughed if not for the questions now looming in my mind. I had more questions than answers now, which was a start.

 **XXX**

"Why were you smirking back there?" I asked.

"Back where?" John asked innocently, though he wouldn't turn to look at me.

It was only John and me in my room; Hermione had decided to do her own set of research on Mike, mainly on his address and other various ways to contact him. The plan was to find Mike, and hopefully, find him and make him admit something. It was a feeble plan I knew, but it was also the least tedious and time-consuming. All we had to do now was wait for Hermione to get the research for it. John sat on the bed, looking bored as ever as I connected more tacks and evidence around the room.

"You know you could try to clean this place once in a while. It's becoming a jungle in here." He said.

"Too busy, besides you can walk around fine in here,"

"Only on your bed." He retorted.

"What were you laughing about, though?" I asked.

"I wasn't exactly laughing about anything in particular. I was just mainly laughing at your face I guess. It looked like you had eaten something seemingly sour and spicy at the same time. I had never seen you that uncomfortable. Though I suppose I should have expected that reaction considering the death glare you gave the guy." John said, chuckling to himself.

"It wasn't that funny," I said, suddenly reddening.

"Yes, it was. It was actually very humorous. Couldn't at least once admit someone actually, might be smarter than you, Sherlock?"

"She isn't smarter than me."

"We both know she is," John deadpanned.

I sighed because he was right. Hermione was probably the cleverest and certainly the smartest person known to man, she easily outsmarted me in so many things. She didn't need us for this case probably, she didn't have any gain with me or John. Even as kids she had already beaten me from the classroom to my own bedroom, and she only had gotten smarter. I didn't even know why she was hanging out with us, or why she had even given us this case. Perhaps she liked our presence like John had said, though I highly doubted that. Between my frequent temper and John's easily annoyances, we weren't exactly the best people to be around.

Maybe she liked hanging out with us because we were freaks, or at least I was a freak. That's what bothered me the most, I couldn't figure out why she would want to even be around us. She probably was just pitying us, and I hated to be pitied when it did nothing to you but made you seem weaker. That was the truth, though, there couldn't just be any other reason for her to hang out with me, and as much as I hated the reason I did like her company. I liked her quips and her intelligence and the way I could bounce things at her and she could bounce it right back. It was refreshing to do it again, though to tell her that was over my dead body.

"So what if she is? She already knows it, she flaunted it when we were kids anyways. Why does she want me to admit it?" I finally asked.

"I don't know, maybe some humility for you. Maybe she wants to know that you have an opinion of her." John said.

I cringed. "Why would she care for that, we hardly know each other. Besides, it's completely irrelevant of my opinion her if I think she's intelligent enough or not."

"Well, do you think she's smart?" John asked.

"You just said-" I started.

"That's what I said. Do you think she's smart Sherlock?"

"Fine, sure. But it doesn't matter."

"It matters to her that you think at least something of her," He said.

"Why would a trivial thing like if I think she's smart, matter?"

"I don't know Sherlock, you're the smarter one. Figure it out." John said, knowingly smiling. I then huffed in annoyance and turned back to my work.

 **Hermione POV**

I went over to Sherlock's room. As usual, the room was a mess, but I was able to find a small spot to sit on Sherlock's bed, sitting next to John who was looking very bored but something else too. In fact, both of them were acting odd, John had been in fact smirking slightly when I had entered, and he kept now eyeing Sherlock as if waiting for him to do something. Sherlock, though was doing the exact opposite he wasn't reacting at all, even to me being in the room and my various comments on it. He was like a statue, his face square to the wall, and the only thing I could hear from him were mutterings under his breath. I could tell for sure though something was off as he wasn't being his usual arrogant self, telling from there were no snide comments or boasting about what he was doing.

"Any luck with the addresses?" John asked.

"I got his address and his home phone number. I tried calling him, but the line was dead. As for his address, well I obviously didn't want to ring his doorbell and accuse him of murdering anybody." I replied.

"Did you hear that Sherlock?" John asked smugly. Sherlock's face was still towards the back of the wall and he only muttered something half comprehensible in reply.

"He must have been, that's the only explanation," Sherlock said, he then turned to us his face suddenly glowing with energy.

"The murderer, it must be the cab guy, it makes perfect sense. His sudden buying of the tickets to go out, his avoidance and staying in his house. His reclusive behaviour hours after the murder, it all makes perfect sense now. Yes, he must be the killer for Finnigan."

I eyed him sceptically. "I don't know Sherlock; we haven't even met the guy before. Maybe he has an alibi for it."

"Unlikely but I guess there's only one way to find out," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together and smiling mischievously. I didn't like where this was heading, telling from John's sudden sigh and Sherlock's burst of energy it couldn't be good.

"I really don't like the sound of that," John said.

 **XXX**

"We are not breaking into his house, Sherlock!" I yelled for the third time.

"And what do you propose for us to do? Ring the doorbell politely and pretend to be girl scouts selling cookies this time?" He then began rummaging throughout the front patio for a key.

"He could still be here; his car is still parked in the driveway." I hissed.

"Unlikely considering none of the lights in his house are on in any angle," Sherlock replied.

"Okay, so what if he's not? We're still breaking into a stranger's house! Do you realise how obscure this sounds? If he's not the killer we're going to look like criminals! Our parents would kill us, at least we should try talking to him first!"

"There's not enough time. Besides, we can assure that's he's not trying to hide or lie about anything by searching his house before. He's a criminal, Hermione."

"You think he's a criminal, but in case you haven't noticed there's no evidence against him except your little theory!" I yelled.

"Well, he'll be here soon anyways," Sherlock said, and then smiled upon finding the key embedded in one of the bricks on the walls of the house.

"At least we can ring the doorbell to check if he's home!" I then jammed the button before Sherlock could unlock the door. After five minutes of waiting Sherlock finally opened the door, much to John's grievous sigh in dismay and defeat and my frequent protests against this.

The inside of the house was nothing like it seemed on the cheery and rather normal looking outside. For one it was dark, but when we turned on the light in the entrance hallway what we were met with was even worse. The house was a total wreck, a tornado had practically swept through the entire place, all the small tables were knocked down, the shelves on the walls were crooked and the contents now lay scattered across the floor. A lamp had tipped over and the shards of glass were everywhere. Overall it was unnerving, creepy even, like straight out of the start of a horror movie. I turned to look at the walls and realised there were scratch marks dug in by hand. I could almost see the struggle in the marks as they struggled for their lives, for something to grab on. Someone had already broken into this home before. I hoped they still weren't sticking around.

As we walked further and further down the hallway, more evidence was laid before us like a reel in a silver film. Each time we walked it revealed more and more bloody and violent details about what had happened here. There were cracked mirrors with blood handprints, fingers tracing on the wall in red, chairs and tables scratched and dented from use, some even broken partially as if used as weapons. Potted plants were knocked over and mingled with the already broken glass shards on the floor. Clearly, whatever had happened had been a terrible fight, but I was scared to see the loser of the fight.

When we got to the living room, I couldn't even fully comprehend what I was looking at. When I finally did, I couldn't look at it for long, hiding away from the scene by hiding behind Sherlock. The scene that was before us was far too bloody and gory to deserve to even be in the scariest of films. The scene didn't seem real, it didn't seem possible that it could be real. It all seemed just so absurdly bloody and surreal to even make sense of. My brain tried to logically try to make sense of it but it just couldn't. Blood splattered across the floors and walls of the place like a twisted Jackson Pollock's painting. All of the furniture, the white walls, even the wood were tainted with blood. Everything in the room had been toppled over or damaged severely some way. The couch had large shreds like talons had gone through it, glass sculpture's heads rolled on the floor; the only that had stayed relatively intact was the fireplace. Somehow all of the pictures on top of the mantle had stayed in place, though crooked and broken, they were relatively not damaged compared to everything else unless you count the blood splattered on them.

The most frightening and all around horrifying sight of all though was the taxi driver. He laid on his back, openly on the floor, and I knew for sure before even checking that he had been dead for a while. His blood still spilt from him like red wine, staining the carpet. I didn't even recognise him at all at first, his face had been so physically altered that I couldn't recognise him. His body was the most painful part to look at, his arms and legs twisted and turned in ways no limb could humanely bend without excruciating pain. He looked like a squashed spider, all his insides gushing out and his limbs sprawled out inhumane ways. His neck had been snapped and it hung loose like a bobble head, his tongue was out like a dog too. His eyes clouded from death were still wide open, and he was forever paralysed in the shocked position he had been when he had died.

I suddenly grimaced, how could someone be so cruel to do this to someone? Why would they even do this to a man who could have been innocent? Who on earth would have the twisted enough mind to do this, witch or muggle? I then took off his jacket and realised he was still bleeding. I then took off his shirt to show an even more gruesome sight. On his chest was a large intricately carved cursive M. Done so neatly and perfectly as if by a surgeon. What was most alarming though beside the mark wasn't the M, it was the striking lightning bolts across his chest, all bruised and swelling still, just like Finnigan had been. It was the same marking of death I had seen so many times only in history textbooks, something that scared all wizards to the bones. This man had been killed by the same one as Finnigan.

I turned to look at Sherlock and John, trying desperately not to cry. I didn't suddenly know I felt l like crying, but I didn't know why, sadness for him, remorse, guilt, even fear for my own life now? This was just so much deeper and scarier and all around nerve racking than I ever could have realised. It was so hard just to rationalise a person, a real person, had done this cruelty to someone. It was hard to keep the emotions away and try to make myself think clearly when all I could see was a lost soul in a whole mess of things. This is what it was, though, this was a true murder was like. This is what it felt like to see the true monster of humanity, and never had it felt so strongly. No matter how many pictures, how many data reports or things you read it doesn't do it justice to see the real thing. I felt sick to my stomach and I wanted to disappear from the world.

Johns' face had taken a pale parlour, and he was tinged slightly green from the sight. He looked even worse than me, hollowly staring at the body, a devoid of emotion. Every now and then he turned to look away so he wouldn't puke, but otherwise, he kept on staring, his face numb. Sherlock looked even paler than I was thought possible, and for the first time, I saw fear in his face, no, true terror. That look he had frightened me the most, but there was something else in that fear too, but I didn't know what. He had seen things like this before, he had examined the dead body, why did this scare him? He kept staring at the M in pure terror, his eyes widening as he kept on staring. It was if he was in a trance a dream; he slowly walked to the body and carefully looked at the M before closing the dead man's eyes.

"Sherlock?" I whispered. He suddenly snapped out of it, and tried to give a smile, but it was weak and hardly working. He was trying though to put back the warmth in his cheeks again, to try to act as if this was just another a murder.

"He couldn't have been dead for long. The blood on the body hasn't crusted over yet and he's still bleeding internally it seems." Sherlock muttered, turning over the body.

"And the M?" I asked. He flinched at the phrase, freezing completely before going back to the body, not saying a word about it. I turned to look at John, but he had turned away too, and wouldn't show his face to me.

"Sherlock you don't think-"

"It's him again," Sherlock said to John. He only nodded.

"Contact Molly. I'm going to be using her lab for a while," Sherlock said, and with that, we left the house of horrors.


	7. Argumentations

**Author's Note**  
I don't own the Harry Potter and Sherlock franchise, yadda yadda yadda.

 **Chapter 7. Argumentations**

 **Hermione POV**

It's been two weeks since we went into the house and things have just gotten worse. John and I mostly hang out now, trying to do our part of solving the mystery, or even better yet solve it ourselves. The results though have proven nothing and we've gotten no progress. If anything it seems like we've backtracked. Now that we have all this information the past information we have seems questionable, and it just leaves us in an even worse state. I've tried to contact the Ministry to see if they could help with it, but like they so eloquently put, it's my responsibility. I suppose they're right, but still, they don't even know yet how complicated and confusing this murder is. I don't even know how deep and dark this goes. I can't seem to wrap my head around these attacks, and how they even make sense? Anyone, muggle or not shouldn't be killed in such a horrible way. The thoughts of seeing that body still keep me up at night. Lately, I've found it better just to stay up than see his face again.

John worries the most, though. He doesn't fare much better than any of us, he's much more tired and depressed than any of us. I feel the worse for him, I only needed Sherlock, I should have never let either of them gets involved in the first place. This is my fault, and my fault only. These bad things, these terrible things are only happening because I let them get involved and now I don't even know how to get them out of it. I feel terrible about it, and sometimes I wonder what I can even do. John's been helpful though through all of this, and for that at least I'm grateful.

As for Sherlock, I haven't seen him at all in weeks. Apparently, he goes back and forth between his house and Molly's lab. It's no use trying to follow him, every time I go to his house he's at Molly's and every time I go to the lab he's back at home. I can't imagine though what sort of sorry state he might be in right now. Seeing that was already bad enough for me and John, but Sherlock, the thought of his reaction terrifies me the most. I can even picture him, the paling of his face, the sudden coldness, and rigidity of him. He knew what the M meant, he knew what would happen if we saw that body. I fear he knows what's going to happen next and he's just not saying because he wants to do it on his own. I don't want him handling it on his own, though. He shouldn't be handling this on his own, nobody should be doing this on their own. I hope he's doing all right.

I get up. I've had enough of waiting around like this, I can't let this continue anymore. I text John and together we go to Molly's.

 **XXX**

"How's he been?" I ask, Molly. She bites her lip for a moment, her expression darkening.

"Not in the best state. I've never seen him work this hard, he's working like a madman. The last time he was even remotely close to this-" She turns to look at John and seeing his expression she quiets. I give them both wary glances. What are they trying to hide from me?

"I've been bringing him meals every day, but he won't eat them. On good days he might eat a bite or two but that's all I can force him to do. He's been drinking a lot of coffee, though, practically 4 cups throughout the day. I think that's the only reason he's sane right now."

"How long has he stayed in there?" I ask.

"About four days now," Molly says weakly.

"That's it, I'm going in there," I say and storm towards the front door.

"Allow me to gladly break the door open," John says and he barges into the door, knocking it down in one move.

The inside is absolutely awful, it smells of toxic smokes and chemicals and other various aromas that make my eyes water, my gut clench, and my throat burn from breathing it in. When most of the gases had escaped I ventured in, noticing as I walked the various piles of broken glassware on the floor, stacks upon stacks of old food never even eaten, chemicals in metal tins and various other tools laid carelessly on the floor, all amounting to serious injury. The worst of it though was Sherlock.

To say the least he looked like death had knocked his front door. His hair was a disarray and a mess, Molly's dad's clothes hang on his loose and smaller and thinner frame, stained with various chemicals and had various holes from other things. His face is gaunter, his eyes are twitching and bloodshot, and his back is hunched over, making me for once taller than him. He hisses at us when we try to step any further, and for a moment I almost don't recognise him because he doesn't look but rather a shell of one. He looks so defeated and broken, as if this work, this testing, these chemicals, that's the only thing that's going to keep him alive even though we both knew that's a lie.

"Sherlock-" I begin.

"Go away." His voice comes out cracked and hoarse like hasn't spoken in weeks.

"You don't have to lock yourself in here. We can do this together." I begin.

"What because you always know? You always have the answers? You know what's best for me?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't mean it like that-"

John cut in. "You haven't been doing it. Have you?"

Sherlock chuckled at this, though it came out too cold and harsh. "No, unfortunately, he's not in town. Besides, I don't have the luxury to spend my time there."

"Do I have to get Mycroft get-" John starting stepping forward.

"I'm clean for now. I can't have drugs in here messing with all the other various chemicals." Sherlock says.

"Why don't you want us to help you?" I ask.

"I'm not a child anymore Hermione. I'm fine. I just need more time. Once I finish this for you, it'll all be over and you can back to your perfect life."

"What? You think my life is perfect? What do you think I just live some picture perfect life you find in some magazine! Do you think I'm completely fine!'

"Oh, poor pity you. I'm fine though so for god's sake stop worrying about me! Stop making me your pity case, go find another kicked puppy to take care of!"

"What are you even talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm saying you can't possibly even like me. Tell me, seeing me like this, does it repulse you?" He turns to stare at me, towering over. I can't say anything in reply.

"I knew it. You hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Well, you can lie to yourself then. I hate you, though. I hate everything about you. " He mutters, his voice are sharp as daggers.

"I hate how you showed me that body! I hate the pity give me like I need or something! You've ruined my life all over again!" He yells, getting up and knocking everything off the table.

"Sherlock!" John yells. It's too late, he's already finished what he's apparently always wanted to tell me.

"Fine hate me then! I don't care, you, ungrateful git! Next time maybe I won't care for you!" I yell and stomp out of the there, blinking away the tears. John chases after me, but I'm already running far too fast and far too quickly home.

 **XXX**

I ran back home, slamming the door behind me despite John's protests as he went after me. My parents aren't luckily home ; I don't feel in the mood for them to try to question or sympathise or even understand. They just couldn't understand the situation, they don't even know what I've done with Sherlock for the past few weeks. They don't know anything about me anymore. Nobody does really.

Sherlock actually hates me. He's been hating me all this time, and a fool I was to think he could actually consider me a friend. That I even considered him a friend when he just hated me. What did I do to make him hate me so much? Why does it ache so much when I even think about it? I want the pain to go away, I want to drown it out, I want to feel so numb that I can't feel anything. All I can do though is just sit here and wallow in it.

Why am I even sad? I haven't done anything wrong. I didn't pity him once. I want to know him, or at least I did then. I guess I just wanted that part of my childhood back when things weren't so complicated. When as kids the impossible seemed so possible. I wanted that feeling I felt when I was just a kid when he made everything so amazing and possible and complicated yet beautiful at the same time. Maybe though I was expecting too much from him, maybe I didn't even think of what kind of person he could be. No, I'm not at fault here, yet I still feel guilty. If he hated me why did he help me in the first place?

I lay in my bed, a whirlwind of emotions sucking me in, making me as confused as ever. My logical mind races for rational, explanations, a shred of logic, but it can't find any of it. Why did Sherlock hate me so much? Why is he afraid to care?

 **John POV**

I decide to visit Hermione, partly out of pity for how Sherlock treated her and partly just to see how she's handling things. I go couple hours later, thinking it to be the best considering how angry she was when she ran home, and knowing how her angry side is not the one I want to see right now. Maybe now she might at least be in a little better of a mood, or at least a more sociable and not trying to kill me one.

I can't lie to myself and say I'm not mad at Sherlock too. Even though he is my best friend I do side with Hermione with this. He had to realise even if those things he said weren't necessarily true, they still hurt people, and they might even push them away forever. The git had a lot of nerve to say those things, didn't he ever consider how much he would hurt the one person who actually might understand him? For a genius, he's such an idiot because he obviously doesn't see how Hermione has been kind to him. Or maybe he has noticed it and thinks it's a stupid trick because God forbid someone actually like Sherlock Holmes, the boy who no one can like because if even one person does the world turns into anarchy. Everything was actually going find to and he just had to blow it at the worst moment possible. I can't even believe his idiocy at the moment.

When I come to visit her she's a complete wreck, looking almost as bad as Sherlock in a matter of hours. Her hairs completely wild, taking on a life of its own. She's curled up in the centre of her bed like a small child, smothering herself in blankets, and not even daring to look up at me. From the way her back hunched and her shoulders racked I knew she had been crying recently. All the energy, all the life that had once filled her all had been taken away. When I laid my hands on that bloody git he was going to pay for this.

"Hermione?" I say gently.

"Are you here to tell me you hate me also?" Her voice comes out so bitter and paralytic I jump back in shock.

"No, of course not. Look you know how Sherlock get's when he's in his moods. He just says a lot of stupid things and he doesn't necessarily mean-"

It wasn't a mood, though, was it? He meant it, I saw that in his eyes that he meant it.

"No, he's just frustrated and you were the nearest person to take it out on. Trust me, he's done this sort of thing before. "

"But it doesn't make sense, why is he pushing my out of the case then?

I take a deep breath in. "Because he's afraid of what might happen next." I then begin to tell him the first time we saw the M.

 **XXX**

We had both been so young when we saw it. It had been one of the first cases of the year, ever really at the time. We were both innocent and just naive in a sense too, only taking cases to make some money to buy a little action figure or a new microscope. I had only just turned thirteen and Sherlock had finished 4th grade 2 weeks ago. Both of us had been so bored we decided to take a case and that's how we stumbled upon. Well, the lady for it, in fact, was our very first, and for a while, our only client.

Her name had been Emma Mole, an older lady I would say in her 50s who had just retired. She seemed nice enough, and more importantly she was wealthy and willing to pay us 30 dollars each for the job. I remember the firs time we say her, the strong scent of perfume surrounding and engulfing her, the shiny and luxurious red silk jacket she draped over her, the neat white laced gloves that covered her hands, and of course the thick mink scarf that was draped around her even though it was 80 degrees outside that day.

Mrs Mole had decided to come to us after going to the police and of course them not helping at all. She was the type of lady who wanted results quickly and would get them in any ways necessary, usually by payment. She had heard from a neighbour who had heard it from Sherlock's mother of Sherlock's reputation for these sort of things. She had decided to give us the case because of this, despite our ages and gave us a deadline of a week. The case itself was simple but complicated enough to occupy us at the time. It was over her lost dog, which hadn't been seen in over 5 days. We took the case happily and began searching for all the locations a lost dog might be found.

Eventually, we found the dog in a neighbourhood or two over from Mrs Mole. Mrs Mole unfortunately never got to see her dog again. When we went to her house to give her dog back to her and receive our payment we were met with 2 police cars in the driveway, along with tape surrounding the whole house. When we snuck under the tape and entered the house it was swarmed with even more police tape, blocking out all of the rooms on the bottom floor. There were also many policemen and detectives there too, muttering to themselves, taking notes and pictures, and overall at unease. Journalists and reporters flocked the edges of the tape, trying to get an answer or two. The terrifying part though was why everyone was there.

It was just like the murder we saw in that house. Edna Mole laid on the ground, dead. Her body was completely covered in blood and contorted in a way that didn't seem humanly possible. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth forever agape. Every aspect of her chilled me to the bones and I nearly passed out at the crime scene. The most disturbing part though was the same capital M carved into her. It was the first murder both of us have ever seen in person. I remember having nightmares for weeks about and even going to a child therapist for months afterwards. Even then it ended up not helping much, and sometimes I even image her staring at me.

As for Sherlock, well he didn't do well at all the crime scene. I had never seen the boy that scared in my life. He was pale as a sheet and his body was shaking all over, his hands trembling, and his eyes watering from the sight of it. It was also strange, though, he hid it so well once we left the house, immediately going back as if he had just seen some mundane thing. He hid a lot better than me, that was for sure, he didn't even mention it to his mother once, and when my mom told him what I had been having nightmares about she had tried to get him to go to a somebody to talk about it but he didn't want to because frankly he didn't look bothered by it. But he was bothered by it, instead of expressing it outwards like me he internalised that fear, hiding behind locked doors in his mind, forgetting it and moving past it in a sense.

He did try to go on the case, though, he desperately needed those answers to move forward. The police of course like any sane adult dismissed him, and he never got the answers he probably needed. In the end, I don't think they ever figured it out. They couldn't even recognise what sort of weapon was used on her. The murder like most terrible things was buried and hidden, disappearing into the pages, never to be seen again.

 **XXX**

"That's why Sherlock's afraid of letting you in on this case. That body we saw, it wasn't the first and for once, he doesn't know the answer to it. It scares him to not know, and he doesn't want anyone getting hurt in the process." I finish.

Hermione sat on the bed, no wide-eyed and rocking back and forth. Her eyebrows were furrowed in contemplation, though her eyes were distant. "Why didn't he tell me before?"

I shrugged. "Who knows how Sherlock's mind works? He's he trying to face it alone Hermione."

"Well if he wants to do that he continue doing that. I'm not going to apologise for doing nothing wrong." Hermione says bitterly. I sigh, it's hopeless to argue with her, so instead I left the room.

 **Author's Note**

Hello again, I'll be trying to keep this on a regular schedule on Saturdays again, so please do continue reading. This one wasn't the most fun to write, mainly because I always hate writing any form of conflict between the two, even though I sort of made it inevitable for it to happen. I honestly hate it though as sometimes I feel like I even have to choose a side and it's a balance between been fair and equal in portraying both sides of the argument. Anyways, thank you all who read this and please review!


	8. John's Troubles

**Author's Note  
** I don't own the Harry Potter or Sherlock franchise (duh)

 **Chapter 8. John's Troubles**

 **John POV**

For the past 2 weeks, I've bounced back and forth between Hermione's and Sherlock's places as both have decided to practically live there. Hermione mainly stays in her room and Sherlock lives in Molly's dad's lab, much to Molly and her parent's annoyment. Both I'm pretty sure haven't left those places at all, not even to eat or sleep. They also have not even seen each other either, and just decided to work out the argument by ignoring each other until the other gives in. I sigh, I should have expected that considering the stubborn genius arseholes they are.

And believe me, I've tried convincing both to do something about it, but Hermione sees it as not her fault so she has nothing to apologise for (which I can agree on) and Sherlock refusing because well, he's Sherlock and hates admitting to being wrong. I've finally given up because when I tried to convince them it made the matter worse, each trying to claim me for their side. I honestly don't know how much more I can handle of this argument considering how much more work I get from them. My phone bill is blowing up because both call me at different times to meet them, and now I have to practically run back and forth to even try to be in 2 places at once. For instance, I was with Sherlock in the morning until 10:00, had to go to Hermione's until 10:30, ran back to Sherlock's and stayed there until 10:50 and then back to Hermione's again, and that only counts the morning.

Now I'm just sitting on the couch, phone in the completely other room turned off, all the doors locked and windows bolted so they can't break in, and I feel thoroughly exhausted.

"Having fun there?" Harriet asked. I roll my eyes.

Harriet's my older and much more immature sister who's just finished her third year at the university. She usually spends her days in her old room, and then goes clubbing or at a 'friend's house' during the night. It's beyond me why she chooses to stay here when she should have plenty of money to stay there for the summer, but I guess it's just cheaper to stay here when there's free food, no rent, and no fees on laundry.

"They're both driving me insane!" I yell, full exasperated.

Harriet chuckled. "I would expect that from Sherlock, but who's the other person?"

"Hermione. They're in a stupid fight because Sherlock couldn't keep his mouth shut and now being the stubborn people they are, they won't make up or do anything about it until the other does. Which normally I would be fine with except they keep insisting on having me on their side and threatening to tear me apart and keep taking all of my days away!" I grumbled.

"Why don't you just make one them apologise or at least talk to the other?"

"Have you met them?"

"Well, surely Hermione not as bad as Sherlock."

"Unfortunately you're wrong. Hermione's even worse than him." I said.

 **Yesterday**

"Could you pass another pin?" She asked.

"Sure," I said, rummaging through all of the hundreds of piles of papers and graphs and documents she kept scattered on the floor.

Throughout the past week, her room had turned into a research lab completely, looking exactly like a neater version of Sherlock's room. There were thousands upon thousands of files and documented research on everything relating to the case and the case Sherlock and I had seen. I honestly don't know how she had so much information on it, I assumed most was highly classified, Sherlock and I at least couldn't have gotten our hands on it easily. Somehow she did though and now it scattered the floor, making it almost impossible to walk without knocking something over. Added to the fact that a whole wall of her room had been dedicated to connecting evidence, and the hundreds of books opened on various subjects, and pages, on all the tables, I could barely find a place to actually stand still. Not that it didn't help that Hermione was constantly running around all over the place, pinning things there, reading a page for a second before moving something somewhere else. The only neat and clean place in the room was a tiny corner of her desk where she kept her daily mug of coffee and all of her dirty plates stacked. These plates of course for when she did eat food, which she rarely did either now, deciding that coffee and sheer willpower to solve this was how she was going to live.

"Table on the right corner." She said, not looking at me but motioning to her right. I then checked in the drawers and found a small shoebox of coloured tacks, and I handed her a handful.

Thanks." She said, tacking on the last one before looking at her handiwork. I would admit it was impressive, whereas Sherlock like him had been so scattered and all over the place her seemed much more organised, calculated, and I could actually understand it because of her neat handwriting.

"What's all this mean, though?" I asked.

She pressed her lips together in concentration. "I'm not sure yet." She sighed in exasperation. "It just doesn't make sense even when I put it all together! How am I supposed to have this solved by the end of summer! It may take even months years even to solve this!"

"You know you could ask-" I shut my mouth quickly as Hermione turns to glare at me, her eyes full of fury. I then realised I had promised her yesterday I wouldn't mention Sherlock's name again after pestering her with it so much. At the time it had seemed right considering how miserable and stressed out she was getting already, but now I wondered if not mentioning it was worse.

"Until the git apologises I'm not talking to him. Besides, we don't need. We both can figure this out on our own." She said, her voice steely, and determined. I wondered if that determination was for me or for herself.

"Hermione you know how he's like, he's no going to-"

"Well, then he's going to have to learn to do it like the rest of us. Someday he's going just going to have to grow up and stop this superior complex." Hermione said, her voice still fierce.

"Why does he have to be so stubborn, and why do I still care about him?" She whispered to herself, her eyes widening and softening, her voice barely heard.

My eyes widened. I had always assumed that she had perhaps had some sort of feelings towards him, anyone who wants to stick around him for so long has to develop that. But I didn't think she would actually ever admit it to herself about caring about him, I always thought she was in denial about, and especially now I thought she would be. Maybe if she admitted it to Sherlock he would actually see then, but no she wouldn't do that. If she was going to do it, it had to be on her own terms and it had to be genuine. I just couldn't force it out of her even if it made the situation a little bit better. Besides, I didn't want to force her to do anything even if it stopped their problems.

"He just has that wonderful magnetic personality," I said sarcastically, she laughed.

"Thanks, John, for everything, I don't know if I could have done this without you." She said and eyed me gratefully. We then worked in silence, our thoughts a million miles away.

 **XXX**

"I agree with her, poor girl. Good for her, sticking into what she believes in and waiting for Sherlock to actually have a spine so he can apologise." Harriet said.

"Not helping Harriet," I said, irritated.

"Why don't you convince Sherlock then? Make the genius see the light in his muddled mind?"

"I've tried that too. It didn't work out so well either." I said.

 **A couple days ago**

"For God's sake, Sherlock, could you at least buy a lampshade to put some light up in here!" I shouted, he merely turned to look at me, irritated.

"Could you say your annoyances a little less loudly, some of us are actually trying to think," Sherlock said, turning back to his microscope.

The lab had taken a life of its own now, it slowly had gotten worse after the fight, looking about ten times worse now. There was no longer any running electricity in the place, so it was dark in there and hot and humid. Mould patches were beginning to grow in the corners of the room, surprisingly the only form of life in there besides the genius himself, if you can even consider him as living right now. Sherlock's already thin frame had gotten thinner, making him look more like a skeleton or a corpse than a vampire. I'd been trying to force him to eat now every time I visited because the last time I found him in the lab passed out from exhaustion. The place smelled absolutely awful and so did he, he hadn't showered in weeks, his hair practically having grease drip from of it, and overall he just looked grimy and smelled of the chemicals and god knows what else in here. Other than those things he seemed mentally fine, if you can count this style of living state mentally fine. He hadn't at least tried other ways to find answers yet.

I took another breath in, nearly vomiting instantly from it. How could he even stand to breathe this, I was pretty sure this didn't have oxygen in it? Good God he needed to get a filter for the air or I was going to pass out in here. "What is that smell?" I asked, pinching my nose.

"Sulphur most likely, if you must you can open the door to clear it out." He said. I practically marathoned to the door, breathing in the clean air.

He turned to me again. "Did you bring it?" He asked.

"Sherlock I don't think you should be turning-"

"Did you bring it?" He snapped, standing up and slamming the table. He was starting to get withdrawal symptoms again.

I hesitated;I hated when he got into these mood swings or set of mind. It's been happening more lately too. I was worried that he's becoming more dependent on it than he would like to admit. I'd been reading about it and all the health problems that will come with it. I couldn't seem to make him quit, or even admit that he might have a problem with it because of course he never wants to admit he has a problem or any issue in his life, it's always been him against the world. Still, I didn't think me giving him this would help at all. If anything I was giving to his habit. Plus the thought of my Mother finding out I actually bought this and gave it to him... I look up at him, I've never seen him so desperate for one. I've never seen him this in a bad shape in his life and I've seen him in plenty of states of injuries. From his several habits in the alleys and just in general his frequent fights at school, but this one was worst of all. Besides, Sherlock promised me, he promised me he would only ask me for them when he was truly desperate from them, and they seem to help him a lot. They seem to stop the momentary frustration and let him calm down so he can think and focus, but using it now, I didn't think it would be a good idea.

"Yeah, I did." I begrudgingly fished out the packet of cigarettes. Sherlock eagerly snatched it from my hand like a child taking candy. No, even quicker than that, like an addict getting another high. My fears were worsening.

He pulled out from his jeans a lighter and lit it, blowing out a long dragon tail of smoke. "Could you at least smoke outside? I hate the smell." I said, wrinkling my nose. I always hated the smell of cigar's, it reminded me of too many unpleasant things, like my late Grandmother's place, or when I found Harriet passed out in a cheap motel and had to bring her home or even the frequent alleyways Sherlock hung out in.

Sherlock hummed in satisfaction but went outside to continue it. I sighed, I had given the last pack only 3 days ago, how could he have burned through it so quickly. At the rate he was going through them, no, I didn't want to think about that now.

The last time he went this downhill, when I actually yelled at him and made him promise to me only to call for those cigarettes when he truly needed them, he had been really downhill and it had been with drugs, not cigarettes. At least these I can control more, I should be happy. At least for now he's always stayed here, and I didn't have to worry about whether or not I would find him somewhere else on the verge of death. At least for now I wasn't spending my nights praying in a hospital because he was too young to die. I didn't have to worry for now that I would have to attend my best friend's funeral at the age of fifteen while his weeping parents stood on the side as they looked at their dead boy's body. At least for now I wasn't spending my nights praying in a hospital because he was too young to die. No, he wasn't close to that yet, he was at least occupying himself here, and he was only smoking as far as I knew. I always knew when he was high because he could never stop at one and soon his arm would start bleeding. Plus on the day in the hospital when he woke he promised. He promised I would have to attend his funeral like that. He promised me he would never die like that so young.

"Sherlock, how long did the pack last you?" I asked.

"Not long enough," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock are you-"

He pulled up his arm showing no marks. "I'm fine John. My mental faculties are still here, I'm only using smoking recreationally as a way to focus on the case and drown out any unnecessary thoughts." He said matter of factly.

"And it drowns out all the emotions," I muttered.

"What?" He asked.

"We both know why you're using them, Sherlock! You said you would never slip into this again! You promised me on that day you would never hurt them, you would never hurt Molly or me, or any other person that cares about you! You can't keep this up anymore! We all know it started out then with cigarettes too and it never stays that way, does it? Think about all the people in your life that actually care about you! It's never just you Sherlock!"

"I told you I'm fine! Do I need to prove it to you!"

"No you are not fine, and no stupid test is going to prove that you are! Why don't you just suck it up and apologise to her instead of using these stupid cigarettes to drown out the sorry guilt you have between the two of you!"

"It's not going to happen. We both know what happened to the body. I'm not letting her on the case again!"

"Well too late for that! She's working on it nonstop almost as much as you!"

"You should have stopped her! You- you- you don't understand anything!"

"I understand that a whole lot of people care for you Sherlock and whether you like it or not we're going to go through the case!"

"No, you idiot! I'm not letting her do this. You know what could happen."

"Yes, I know she'll continue working on the case and she might even figure it out and she will hate you forever unless you do something about it!"

"Then let her hate me! Just keep her off the bloody case!" With that, he stormed out of the lab for the first time in weeks. I tried to follow after him but he'd always been a faster runner and he beat me to his own house, locking his room behind him. Later Molly texted me to tell me that he'd returned to the lab, and he looked in an even worse state as if he'd just seen a murder.

 **XXX**

"So what are you planning to do then?" Harriet asked.

"I honestly don't know, if they could only see each other and work it out, but I doubt they will," I said.

"Well, there must be _something_ you can do," Harriet said exasperatedly.

"Come one, there must be some sort of common ground they, something to start them off again and force them to face it. Something, someplace-"

I suddenly look up, knowing exactly what to do. "Brilliant Harriet! Just absolutely brilliant!" I then grab my phone and text Hermione and Sherlock to meet me at the cafe where it all began.

 **Author's Note**

Ah, poor John, I felt bad for writing about him in this position (partly because I hate him to be in the middle of this) but it was much more interesting and easy and relatable to write about it in this position. I always like John, especially since he is espcially the moderator or the ground of the whole thing. He is the real voice of reasoning, and while he may not be genius smart, he is a voice of logic and conscience for both Sherlock and Hermione. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading this and please review!


	9. Miss Me?

**Author's Note  
** I don't own the Harry Potter and Sherlock universe.

 **Chapter 9. Miss Me?**

 **Hermione POV**

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring continuously at the wall, waiting for the answer to come to me. It's there, all of what I need is there. It's all right in front of me yet I still can't make heads or tails of it. Even when I consider the possibility of magic it doesn't make sense, if anything it makes even it more complicated when your factor it in. It just doesn't make sense, none of the people who died had any sort of connection, no known bosses they worked for, no acquaintances, no occupation similarities; the only similarity they bear are living in the same area and even then it seems random as he's hit three different areas of the town so far. It's like the killer is just throwing darts art a bored while his eyes are closed and whoever he hits gets killed by him. I stare at it, getting more frustrated by the second. Why am I being so stupid, I why can't I figure this out? I have all the pieces in there, right? I groan in frustration, half tempted to tear it all apart, shred every piece of file and evidence and just begin again just to make sure I haven't overlooked anything.

And where's John? He should have dropped by hours ago. I've tried calling his phone for the last 2 hours but I finally gave up on the 18th call. He's probably at the git's lab, the nerve John has, shutting off even his phone so I can't contact him. I mean, I guess it isn't fair to say that considering how much help he's been considering how he still has to go back and forth between Sherlock and me. Still, out of all the stupid times I need him, I need him the most right now! I need him to help me examine this at another new angle entirely! I need him to make me see the details that I've missed and helped me put it all together so that it makes sense! I can feel it, I'm so close to it, I swear! I just need someone to put it together. I need someone to see the thing I'm blind to!

Suddenly my phone goes off, it's a text from John. I hurriedly grab it and scan it over quickly.

 **-Meet at the cafe, have important information.  
-John**

I smile, what could this be about? What could have John figured out now? I hope it's important, it might explain why I couldn't do it, because I was missing something! Why would he want to meet at the cafe, though? I mean, it's not like we need to go somewhere public to talk about it, if anything we should probably do it at my house, it's more private. Well, either way, it was John and I trusted him, and he had information. Certainly, it was better than being here and tempted to throw away all my work on the stupid wall. So, I pack up my stuff and head out the door.

 **Sherlock POV**

I glance over at my phone again, still nothing. Where could John possibly be? I've already texted him at least 20 times, and even made a phone call or two between my experiments, but still, nothing, not even a single response to notify he's gotten them. He could be at Hermione's house working on something, but even then he wouldn't be stupid enough to shut off his phone if he was there. Besides, the last times he'd been to Hermione house he's always managed to make it to here by the second or third text. I consider breaking into his house to see if he's hiding out there but decide not to. Partly because I still need to run a few more tests today and partly considering the last time I broke him how the Watson's reacted, particularly Mrs Watson when she saw I shattered the porcelain family heirloom tea set.

Still, I need to run a theory over him, I need to bounce a new idea I have. I sigh, I have too many theories now and not enough evidence to actually prove one logically more over another. Sure, I do have the physical evidence, the bloodstains, the examinations and notes I took from the morgue, but I don't have enough of the profiling to make any use of it, and I can't understand the psychology jargon anyways. That's what I need John for, I need him to help me interpret the psychological side and see if a killer would execute it this way. If I can do this then I can predict his next move. I then look at my phone, it's a single text from John:

 **Meet at the cafe, have important information.  
-John**

What possibly did John want to say at the cafe, and why at the cafe? Couldn't he just bother to go to the lab here or somewhere else less crowded like my house? I mean, I knew John hated the smell and the air in here but at least we could somewhere else less public than that. Why would he of all places want to meet at the cafe? And what information could be worthwhile that he had to actually talk to me about it and not just send me a text? Well, in any case, it might be worthwhile enough to go meet him there, I could then at least discuss my theory on him. Besides, I needed a good cup of coffee; I hadn't gotten a good cup in ages. Partly because the Hooper's had mostly stopped giving me it and partly because I never really brought it in, too dangerous to mistake a cup of coffee for some other chemical. I start to head over, going to outside for the first time in weeks.

 **XXX**

I enter the cafe, still thankful for the air conditioning. Even though it's nearly August and it was already beginning to cool off slightly it was still unbearably hot for my taste. The tiny Mouse House was decorated still in it's overly bright and overly cheery facade, but as tourist season came to a close, so did the number of people and merchandise in the place. At least now it's movable to the point where you weren't rubbing elbows everywhere you went. I take a deep breath in, the air still fresh with the scent of coffee and bakery goods wafting through the air. I admit I do miss breathing in air that didn't smell so musty or chemical filled, and it was a good change to be in here. Certainly, it was much brighter and smelled nicer than the lab.

I then see her, though at first I don't even notice her, much less recognise her because she's changed so much. Not even in a physical sense has she changed (though that has happened as well) but in an energy sense like she's turned into a completely different person now. Her very behaviour from the way she stands to the positioning of her feet and even her little motions with her hands have changed. There's an agitation to her, a quickness and sharpness that wasn't there before. Her legs still keep shaking as if prepared to run, her fingers tap quickly and impatiently on her side. She's in the line buying a coffee when she turns to look at me, both of us staring at each other, not knowing what to say, because what can you say when you haven't spoken in so long like that? There's a silence between us that's so dense I can almost physically feel it before she turns her head high and closes off her body language completely.

I then glance her over, taking in every changed physical feature. Her thin frame has become thinner, she's dropped at least 10 pounds, maybe even 12, but it's probably from lack of eating as there's not any definition of muscle build. Her skin is paler, sickly looking even, and large dark bags had formed under her eyes as well as red bloodshot eyes. To say the least, she looks like a zombie from a horror film. Even the barista takes notice to this and quickly hands her her coffee without saying a word to her. She's wearing an oversized grey hoodie which normally had fit her, but now appeared too big on her and it even showed her ribcage. Her baggy jeans are stained with ink that scattered like a constellation across it, and her shoes looked scuffed and worn down even more. Her brown hair is in the worst state, she hadn't even bothered to try to tame it, it's as if she had shot a firecracker through it and then electrocute it. It's also slightly greasy, suggesting at least she hadn't taken a shower in three or four days. She looks so broken and terrified and small, a part of me wanted to go and comfort her until I realise I'm the one who had pushed her like this in the first place. I'm the one who pushed her away.

I'm tempted to say something to her, but I bite my lip. I'm supposed to be hating her right now, I'm supposed to not care. She's the one who betrayed me first by faking of caring about me anyways. She's the root of the problem in this whole ordeal and she's the one to blame for her own problems. Yes, I can't blame myself, I can't blame me. I didn't do anything wrong. Besides, I don't have anything say that will make the situation any better. I don't know what I can even say to this. The door then rings and I turn to look at it, it's John. He'd better has a good explanation for this.

 **John POV**

By the time I get into the cafe the situation is already worse than I've imagined; Hermione and Sherlock are both already there, both equally looking like they want to kill me. Well, at least they look like they're agreeing on something now. If it weren't for the death looks I might even find the situation funny, considering how out of place the look here, what with Hermione's big and electrocuted hair, and Sherlock's stained lab coat and soot covered face, they literally look like they've both walked out of a science fiction movie or something. I quickly sit down at a booth, both of them following, Hermione sitting beside me and Sherlock on the opposite side.

"I got you a coffee." She says, setting down the tray.

I take a sip. "Thanks."

Now then, care to explain why she's here?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean she's here? You're the one who shouldn't be here! Aren't you supposed to stay stuck in your stupid lab blowing something up or whatever you're doing! John and I have something actually important to discuss, we've actually made a new revelation and are this close to taking hold of the killer!" She says, pinching her fingers together.

Sherlock then turns to me, his eyes suddenly steely. "You're letting her still work on the case this much?"

"Well, I um-"

"Of course he's helping me on the case because this is my case! I'm the one who hired you and let you on it in the first place!" Hermione interrupts.

"You don't even realise the half of it, Hermione!" Sherlock said standing up to leave.

"Will you both shut up! I both invited you here so you guys could work this out, not keep fighting! I'm tired of this stupid argument because you're both too stubborn to talk to each other and I'm sick of having all of my day and efforts taken away because you guys keep flat out ignoring each other! I don't even care what happens after the case, murder each other for all I care! But there is bloody serial killer on the loose and it is no time for a petty argument! It would be a lot quicker to stop people from dying if you actually worked on this together!" I finish, panting heavily.

They both turn to look at me, Hermione's eyes wide with Shock and Sherlock's eyes dark, each not saying a word. Hermione is about to say something when her phone goes off. She turns to look at the texts, her eyes widening, this time from fear. "It's from Molly, she needs us at the house immediately."

Sherlock's eyes widen, and he curses something under his breath, muttering something else to himself before sprinting out of the cafe, Hermione following right behind him.

 **Sherlock POV**

He promised me that he wouldn't. He promised me he wouldn't touch anyone of them, he wouldn't kill anyone near them as long as I play the game. As long as I played the game he promised he wouldn't hurt them, that he would never harm anyone against me. I've been playing it too, I've been focusing. I didn't let anyone else in the game because he told me it was just between him and I and more people would die if I told John or Molly or even Hermione. I've been isolating myself and pushing everyone else out because I was playing his game with him. I've decoded every message he's sent me, took every piece of a puzzle and put it together again, put the pieces of each puzzle and connected them one by one. And I'm still losing the game it seems, I still have nothing on him. Not even a single name, I only know him as RH. I must have been getting close, though, or he was getting impatient with me trying to figure it out if he really hurt them. I shouldn't have been so stupid to trust him, I shouldn't have gambled with him. I shouldn't have cast myself out there without thinking of the consequences. He's the Gamemaster after all, and he creates and breaks his own rules.

When I arrive at Molly's house she and Mrs Hooper are already standing out there in the backyard, sobbing. I grit my teeth, he broke his promise, he promised he wouldn't touch them. He had broken his promise and now the real game began. I enter the lab, nearly gagging on the mixture of dust, chemicals and blood in the air. I quickly find the body, recognising it immediately even in its own disturbed and distorted form: it's Mr Hooper, or was him.

"Sherlock!" John yells and he barges in, panting heavily, only stopping a moment before stepping on the blood and the body entirely.

"Oh, bloody hell." Joh mutters, his face goes even paler than the last few times we've seen this murder, because this time he struck someone we knew, he killed someone who we immediately recognise.

Hermione follow him in, but she stops too, pausing at the scent and immediately recognising it. Her eyes widen and her legs begin to wobble, her chin shatters but she doesn't say a word. For a moment she looks at the grieving family outside of the lab before turning back and changing into another self, a cold self, the self she needs to be here. She knows what she has to do and she does it. She detaches all sentiments, all emotions, all ties she had with that body and starts to stare at it solely as a body, being completely objective. Yes, there's a moment to grieve the loss. There are moments later to break down and cry and to console and be the Hermione that comforts, but that Hermione has no place here. The Hermione here needs to be the one to figure it out, and putting your own subjectiveness has no purpose here. She needs to see only the facts, features but not a face, body but no soul. This thing on the ground isn't Mr Hooper, it is another victim to categorise and learn from so that they can prevent another one. We just need to gather evidence, not sorrow. She's forcing herself to do this, and I know it pains her a lot as I can read her face and I know it's against her very nature to do it. She wants to cry so badly but knows she can't right now. She knows that she can't cry because doesn't do anything here.

I go right next to her, pulling from the table a pair of latex gloves, and begin to look at the body objectively with her, I can do that, I'm good at that. Slowly the emotions and memories connected with him fade away and the facts begin to reveal themselves. The body before me like the rest is supine, though there seems to be more blood seepage pooling around his more than the others. Both his arms and legs are twisted at 90-degree angles, the arms upwards and the legs downwards, making him more or less look like a spider. His neck isn't snapped back and stays relatively intact, but his main artery there is punctured, most likely what killed him. His eyes are clouded in open shock, just like Mike when he had died. Strangely on his chest, there is no carving of an M, his signature, but instead, a silver dagger is stabbed in the centre of the body post mortem. I pull out the dagger carefully, making sure to not mark it, but I know that part is irrelevant, he doesn't ever leave fingerprints of markings behind anyways.

I study the dagger, it's sharp and hooked but incredibly short, the handle itself being longer than the blade, which is only 2 inches long. The hilt is sturdy enough, but when I wrap my fingers around it I discover it's too small for me, suggesting the build or at least the hands of the killer were smaller to stab the body so strongly and comfortably. On the blade of the dagger is a cursive capital M, just like the previous bodies, though this one was evidently done by machine rather than hand considering the perfection and intricacy of it. I run my finger over the steel, it's sharp, but makes an odd curve at the end, and there's an odd imperfection in it, a perfect imperfection. I then feel the weight in my hand and realise something is definitely off, it's too light to be completely composed of metal or even if the hilt was wood, it must be hollow somewhere. I yank on the blade to expose a small compartment in the hilt. In it is a neatly folded note, written on white paper in perfect handwriting.

 **-Did you miss me SH?  
-RH**

I fold the paper in half, I can study it later and try to scrape more from where it came from, but at the moment that seems irrelevant. Right now I need to analyse the body while it's still at the crime scene and still fresh. Hermione turns to look at me, her eyes wide now, and for a moment she's reverted back to her former self. I know she's noticed the paper but she doesn't say anything to ask about it so I don't say anything in reply. Besides, she doesn't need to know about it, she doesn't need to know anything. She doesn't need to know of the game. I then begin to walk out and interrogate Molly and Mrs Hooper about the night of Mr Hooper's death.

 **Hermione POV**

"Can you start from the beginning again, Molly?" I ask gently.

Molly sniffled, and started to cry again, leaning against her mother and grabbing another tissue box. I wince, I hate seeing her in this sort of pain, but I don't think I can say or do anything to make her feel better. What can you say to someone who sees their father dead on the floor like that? Oh sorry, we know about this serial killer that's been running loose but Sherlock and I have been in a stupid argument so we haven't caught him yet, and here's a teddy bear to make up for your dead father. I can't even imagine the pain she's going through, and I feel like it's all my fault. This happened because I was too stubborn to make up with the stupid git, my own pride blinded be. Now look, Molly's dad is dead and never going to come back again. I wonder even if last night she thought this was the last time she was going to say goodnight to her dad, or how she must feel knowing that now it was. If it were me I would have completely lost it, if Harry John, Ron or even Sherlock got hurt remotely like this I would have broken down. It's amazing she's even able to keep doing this, that's she still able to help us. Perhaps it's because though we take grief differently, maybe she's fine now but later she won't talk for weeks on end because she'll be in too much of a shock. Maybe she's only doing this because that's all she can do and after this, she might be in a worse state. I hope that's not the case, I don't want to see her hurt like that.

"Dad had come home late last from his convention up in London-"

"What time?" Sherlock interrupts.

"I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention then. I just know it was late because I shouldn't have been staying up to meet him, maybe around 11?" Molly said. She had mostly stopped crying now, but the tears only kept rolling down her face and her voice still is hoarse and shaking.

"What did he do when he got home?"

"Well, he entered the house briefly and told me to go to bed. After that I think he went to his lab, saying he had to file something away. I was going to go after him, it was still dark and we hadn't fixed the fence yet or done any security, but Mum said to wait until morning."

"Was there anything odd in his behaviour when he arrived?"

"I can't really remember anything, he just looked more tired than usual, but then again it was late and I was tired. He also seemed strangely determined about his files."

"What was he documenting?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. He was always secretive about his work, I didn't even know about his job until I was 8, he was dedicated to his work but rarely shared it with anyone, usually Mum and I found out about what he was doing from reading it from some prestigious article or another. He always said he wanted his work to be perfect when he show it-

"So you have no clue then what he was filing?"

"No, I mean-"

"Do you!?' Sherlock yelled, standing up, Molly begins to sob again.

I snap at Sherlock. He turns to look at me, his eyes fierce with fury before softening at my expression and sitting down again.

"Grab a tissue, it does no use to cry like this Molly. It is irrelevant in the investigation and it doesn't help one bit. You can cry when we're gone, or at the funeral for all I care. Now, though, I need answers." He says.

"That was a bit harsh Sherlock," I said.

"No, he's right. Dad wouldn't just want me to give up on him like this because I can't even form a single sentence now, can I? All right, I'll try to help as much as I can but you've got to promise me one thing." Molly said, her eyes cold.

"What?" I ask.

"You will find that man, and when you do you give him the death he deserves!" Molly said, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Do you promise me that Mr Holmes? Do you promise me, Sherlock?"

"I promise Molly," Sherlock said, her eyes widen, he had never formally said her name before like that. With that, we finished the investigation.

 **Author's Note**

Molly is above all one of my favourite minor characters, and I do enjoy writing about her in these small moments every now and then. Honestly, she could be and she is a very strong character, and she honestly probably deserves someone better than Sherlock Holmes but I don't see anytime soon that she will fall out of love with him. Hopefully nothing bad happens to her in season 4. Anyways thank you for reading and please review!


	10. Falling

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 10. Falling**

 **Hermione POV**

We start heading back to the house soon after the police arrive and start photographing and documenting all the evidence for the murder. Later that week we see it in the paper, but by then it had become almost irrelevant to the case. All of us walked silently, deep in our thoughts and opinions, trying in our own way to make sense of this all. Sherlock's eyes keep hardening and he keeps clasping his hands open and closed into a fist. His pace is much more deliberate and forceful, not bothering even to look or care what's going on around him. He's caught up now in his world, and he doesn't care for this one anymore. I've never seen him this angry before, no, it's not just fury, there's fear fueling that anger. Something he saw there, he saw something there to scare him to be this angry. John looks apprehensively at Sherlock, and I know he's worried. He keeps nudging him and whispering something in his ear, but I don't think Sherlock hears it. I don't think Sherlock hears anyone now.

I keep staring at Sherlock without meaning to. I just can't help it, what is he hiding? He must be hiding something, I saw him take that paper out of that dagger, I saw how he reacted, how his eyes widened with pure fear. I saw how his hands shook when he read that paper over and how quickly he tucked it into his coat, not even daring to look me into the eyes when he knew I saw it. A part of me desperately wants to know what it said on there, what made a person like Sherlock shake so hard like that. But then again, I don't know if I can handle the truth. After all, what could scare someone like Sherlock, a teenager who does murders for fun?

"I'll acquire and connect the data at home. Come on John, you too Hermione." I pause my train of thoughts, looking up to him. Did he really just say that? Did he say my name? Does he want me there again?

"Oh stop staring at me like that. I do know your name after all. John was going to invite you anyway, I was just saving him the trouble." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. Of course, that's why he did it, the git.

"Fine then, I'll come, only since John wants me there so badly," I say, and turn my head high. Sherlock only rolls his eyes again before whispering something to John. While things now seem far from perfect and the world, in fact, is crumbling at my feet, I can't help but smile because he said my name.

 **XXX**

I arrive at the Holme's house half an hour later, after collecting and taking down all the various files, books, and notes I had collected over the past few weeks. I then put them into huge bins and toted them off with my old waggon still in the garage, much to my parent's surprise and confusion at the huge mess of a room I left as a result.

I still hesitate when I stand on that wooden patio, though, staring a little too hard at the chippings on the door. It's pointless to stare at them anyways, I've already memorised them by heart because I spent so many times here. I sigh, this house just so full of memories of my childhood, even though it lasted a year it felt like so much more. And now, he's a part of my life again, or at least it feels that way. What could I even say what he thought about me? I don't think anyone except him knew that, and I'm sure he's not going to tell me anytime soon. What could he see, the genius who could read me so well yet I couldn't even read an inch of him? The boy who held so many thoughts and wonders on the tips of his fingers, who could be cold and harsh yet so broken and kind too. While he's certainly not the boy from my childhood he still made me wonder as much as that boy did when I was that girl. He's still the same person who challenges me, pushes me, and makes me think and then rethink, and that's why I've always liked him. He's pushed me when no one else had dared to.

The door opens and Mrs Holmes stands there. "Oh, Hermione dear, I didn't expect you, though I supposed I should have considering the ruckus Sherlock is making in his room." She said, chuckling to herself.

"How have you been dear? How are you?" She looks genuinely kindly at me, I miss someone looking at me like that.

"I've been okay," I lie.

"May I come in?" I said, motioning to the waggon.

"Oh, of course, dear! Please, be my guest. I've already set up a tea tray, you and the boys can share it. Make sure Sherlock eats one." She says lightheartedly but from the underlying tone, I know she's probably worried half to death about him. What mother wouldn't be? Even though Sherlock looked better than he did in the lab he's still probably too thin and pale for Mrs Holmes not to notice.

As she stands in the kitchen, putting the last cookies on the tea set I can't help but stare at the photos across the mantlepiece. There are a lot of photos of Sherlock and Mycroft when they were little, a chubby one-year-old Sherlock snuggling against a bee pillow twice his size, a two-year-old toddling around the house in a giant pirate cap, a three-year-old smiling excitedly at his birthday party with his first ever microscope, all of them seemingly happy. As he aged though the pictures progressively got more sparse and in between. A five-year-old Sherlock dressed as an elephant, staring into the distance at a boy dressed as a pirate dancing on the stage, a seven-year-old Sherlock playing in the park with a bunch of other children, but strangely none seem to be close distance to him, a 10-year-pld Sherlock in his 4th grade graduation, already towering at a head taller than most, keeping his head down and scowling at the camera. Each time the photos get unhappier, and he gets lonelier.

On the end of the mantle, though there's a single photo of Sherlock and me. I think it's the only documented evidence of us together besides the Halloween photo. It's the one on Christmas morning, I had spent it with the Holmes because I had wanted to see him receive his present firsthand so badly. It was taken right after Sherlock had given me my gift, a beautiful song that I loved so much. I remember being so happy at that moment, so full of bliss there with him. And even though they weren't my family it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Even Sherlock seems happy, half smiling at me, completely oblivious to the camera, still wearing his bee sweater I gave him. I laugh, if I didn't know better it's almost as if he had a crush on me back then.

"I remember that day, it was one of the few days I had seen him smile so much. He loved that sweater to bits and pieces you know, practically wore it every day, staining it, and poking holes in it constantly, but always wanting me to fix it because it was from his best friend, Hermione." Mrs Holmes says, handing me the tray. She looks at the photo smiling fondly at it.

"He smiled so much back then, I wish he smiled like that again." She said to herself, she then looks up at me.

"Give him the tray, and make sure he eats, and make sure he smiles." She then left for the kitchen, humming to herself.

 **XXX**

When I enter his room it's already vastly different than his usual hodgepodge of an organised mess he kept around. Most of the lab equipment is still in boxes, presumably from Molly's lab as he had moved most of his stuff there for his research. All the other scarce data files he did have were now being pinned onto the wall, with the help of John of course. The science posters still hung, but now were covered with hundreds of scrawled and scribbled down notes and data that I could barely read. The hundreds of books that used to line the shelves were now reduced to only about twenty, sorted in a random order I can only assume by relevance. His desk still is messy, but instead of random notes and papers, it's more books, opened to various pages, dog-eared in some corners, and highlighted and marked in on various paragraphs. I start to manoeuvre towards his bed and set down the tray, turning to look at John and Sherlock.

John turns to look at me. "Oh good, you're here. You brought the files, right?" I nod, rolling in the large waggon.

Sherlock greedily snatches them from there, skimming four files at a time until he's finished, which only took him a minute or two. "This will be somewhat helpful to fill in the times and dates of these victims, which can then help with correlation. You can start putting up the data on the walls, and we can then begin connecting it." He said, motioning to the remaining blank wall space. John then starts picking up the files and slowly starts to reassemble the data with me.

After we do all the boxes in the waggon we slowly move to the other boxes in the room, until John finds one tucked in the corner, covered with blood and stains, taped down firms with duct tape. "Sherlock, what's this?" John asks.

"Don't open it, it's just a couple files I collected from Molly's lab. I'll sort it out later," Sherlock said.

"Well, we can just do it now. I mean, it's not like the mess of your room is going to go away anytime soon." John says.

"I said don't open it!" Sherlock shouts, running towards the box, but it's too late. John had opened the box and now slowly examines everything in there.

I look inside the box with him, Sherlock doesn't move to try to stop us. His eyes now are downcast and he doesn't bother to even look at us while we examine everything in there. He doesn't even move, he's frozen in shock. His hands are shaking again, but he still remains standing. What could be in here? What secrets could Sherlock have? I pull out the files one by one. It seems to be at first glance a box full of letters, but when I tried to read them I realised they were all encoded, with descriptions, red underlined words and blacked out other ones, jumbled words that made no sense, various languages and puzzles, most of them completely solved. The disturbing part though is how relevant they seem to the case. There's a line about a scientist travelling to Egypt and being killed by his own artefact, a picture of Cruella de Ville with the dalmatians attacking her, dying from the beast within. All of them are from children's stories, each with pictures cut out from them and descriptions scarily like our murder case, and the stories always with the same meaning. A monster killing the victims for wrongdoing, just like a valiant knight in a fairy tale. Who's the other writer of these? Who could have possibly known and written all this? How did Sherlock even get his hands on this? What does this all mean, and why didn't he say anything before?

John's voice shakes as he starts to stand up. "Sherlock, what, what is all this?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, only turns to look away. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! What is this! Who are these from?!" John is yelling now, and he's shaking Sherlock back and forth.

"I don't know!" Sherlock says, shoving John onto the ground.

John looks up in disbelief before Sherlock breaks down, and when he speaks his voice is weak and quiet. "I don't know, John."

"When did this start?" I ask.

He takes a deep breath in, though his voice is still shaky. "When I was 11, there was a lady who we took a case from, but soon we found her dead in her home. While at the crime scene though I noticed something odd about a photo on her mantelpiece. I know I shouldn't have but curiosity got the best of me and stole it to examine it later. Upon examination, I discovered a hidden message tucked into the picture frame, written in code. I easily decoded it and followed the instructions our of curiosity to see what would happen."

"Sherlock!" John shouted, looking him straight into the eyes. Sherlock doesn't look back, he doesn't look at either of us.

"I thought nothing of it really until I got a message back 2 weeks later. Soon, this killer and I began to have a sort of routine, decoding the other's message before sending a coded one back, each trying to outdo the other. It last for about a year, and then suddenly the messages stopped with only a single phrase. "until we meet again SH-" Then nothing. Soon after I gave up on it, packing away all the letters and taping it shut, forgetting about it after a year or two. Then he started again for some reason, and now he's given me this letter to start." He said, pulling it out, his fingers shaking.

"Now do you see? Now do you see the grave I've dug for myself? Now do you know, Hermione, why you must still get out of this case while you still have time when you still haven't been taken over like me?" His voice shakes so hard when he says this, and it makes my heart ache to hear him like this, to see him like this.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" I ask, my voice breaking.

"He was going to kill you if you knew. He's going to kill you now that you've discovered it. He made it clear the first time he sent the letter it was only a game between him I! You were never meant to play the game, no one else was! It's a game between God's of minds, that's what he called it. Don't you see, a game for God's, he's going to kill you both now!" Sherlock said, standing up.

"Well it's too late now, isn't it? I can't just stand here watching you idiotically risk your life trying to outsmart this person! Whoever he is, no matter what, he is or knows of the murderer. It doesn't matter anymore if my life is in danger, I already knew when I was handed the case my life was going to be in danger! I've been living with danger since I've been eleven, and I've already promised too many people I would do them justice and I am! He killed Molly's dad, I want to at least have something to show for that! I want to serve her justice!" I yell.

"I don't even know who he is, Hermione. Yet he already knows of you 2. He already is winning the game."

"Then we're just going to have to catch up then, together. We've already made it this far, and I want to beat this bastard, too." I say, grabbing his hand.

He looks like he's about to say something, but then freezes, staring at my hand in his palm. He's frozen again as if he can't believe this as if he can't believe I'm real. As if my existence is nothing but a dream. I freeze too, staring at him. I can feel his hands, they're so cold against mine. His expression now has softened, and he's not shaking so much, his breathing's lowered too. He continually stares back and forth at me and his hand, trying to process everything in front of him, trying to understand everything, trying to see and understand me. Why does he have to try so hard like this to see me? Why does it look like he believes I'm a dream? Why can't he just see me like he sees John or others? And why does my heart keep beating faster the longer he stares at me like that? Why is my heart racing a hundred miles when he's touching my hand like this? Why is it different with him?

He then wraps his hand around mine, gripping it so hard it nearly hurts. He's pulling me in, holding me so tightly, like an anchor. He's gripping me so hard as if forcing me to not disappear. He's gripping me like he's afraid I'm not going to exist again like this will be the last time he's going to see me. I grip his hand hard too, making sure he knows I'm there and I'm always going to be there. I'm not going to disappear on him, I won't let it. I won't put him ever again in that sort of pain. "Okay," he whispers.

"Okay," he whispers.

"Okay," I said.

John then coughs. "Alright, um, glad you 2 made up and all but can we work on the case with the new clues now?" John says, slightly smirking.

"What? Yeah, of course." I say quickly, shoving myself away from Sherlock. I shove him so hard he falls off the bed, looking at me annoyed, returning to his usual self. John's smirk only grows wider.

 **John POV**

We start to put the new evidence onto the wall, though both of them are doing it half-heartedly, too distracted with their own thoughts. Hermione keeps staring at the wall so hard you might think lasers would come out of her eyes and blast the whole thing into oblivion. Her face which was tinged pink is now bright red and I can practically feel the electricity coming off her hair. Her feet stand still and she's completely frozen in place. I don't think even if I wanted to I could move her. Besides it's probably best to leave her with her thoughts considering what I just saw.

As if Hermione's bad enough she's nothing even close to Sherlock, I think he's completely lost it. His brain is trying to think of a logic for explaining what just happened, and now his brains gone into overdrive trying to completely explain this scientifically, and he might fry it if he continues trying to. He just sits on the bed, his eyes completely confused on what just happened, the only thing he does seem to be moving is his hand where Hermione's was, opening and closing it, and examining it, not daring to look up at me, or her.

I shake my head, honestly, these two are too much. They've spent weeks hating each other and suddenly are back to liking each other again. No, liking each other was an understatement, I would say they almost acted like a couple. I chuckle to myself. If they only could see how the other thought about them then they could actually potentially be a normal couple instead of having these awkward love/hate moments. It's cute and painful to watch at the same time, not to mention hilarious for Sherlock still being confused about it. No, I doubt it's going to happen now though if it ever happens at all. Both are too prideful to admit to the other their feelings and much too stubborn to ask, not to mention they're completely oblivious about how the other feels normally. Besides, I don't think they even understand what they feel about the other yet, even. Well, I'll just have to wait and see I guess, hopefully, it's not going to be this painful during the whole summer, though.

 **Author's Note**

I love writing this chapter so much, the chapter was honeslty a bit cute. It's a little divergence off the plot but I hope you don't mind! Poor John, having to witness that, unfortunately I don't think they're going to get much better after this, they are after all a bit awkward. Anyways, I hope you guys liked this as much as I liked writing it and please review!


	11. Ashes and Thorns

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 10. Ashes and Thorns**

 **Sherlock POV**

John puts up the last of the papers. He's looking at me oddly again, well, rather grinning at me oddly. What on Earth could he be smiling about? Actually, I don't really want to know why considering the likes of his usual train of thoughts regarding me. I'm probably not going to live this down for weeks from him, if ever. Hermione now takes a step back and scans all the evidence, her eyes skimming through all the material, categorising and memorising and looking for the pattern, the string, to tie it all together. Her eyes are furrowed in concentration as she continues to look, the only problem is that we don't even know if there is a string to pull it together.

I stand beside her, looking at the masterpiece of evidence before us. Hundreds of letters, pictures, and documents plaster the wall, and only a quarter of them are completely decoded and understood. I had always worked on this so much too, and all we had was more mysteries, threats, and a handful of useful information in hopes to see something. All it is though is just a taunting face laughing at us.

I close my eyes in frustration. There's too much here, there are too many variables, too many stimuli of information to focus. Before in the lab, it had the perfect conditions, no lights, no other objects besides those I needed, and most importantly no other people or their thoughts to both me. Now, though, with this stupid promise to Hermione it complicates things, not only for them but for me as well. For one, the room is too bright and while Hermione and John do help, they harbour so many extra thoughts, extra actions. My brain can't seem to shut them out either, and I can't focus on both while they're in here.

"Get out," I need them gone now if I have any hope of focusing on the case. Hermione opens her mouth to retaliate but John quickly grabs her hand and drags her out of the room before she can say anything. I sigh, close my eyes and enter.

I'm walking down the hallway again, searching for nothing, in particular, letting the doors lead me to what I need. Slowly the hallways begin to bend and change, the doors warping as they play memories before me. I dismiss them and they oblige, disappearing as soon as I command. I continue to walk, but then I stop, this is the hallway I've been looking for. The air is cooler now, and dimmer too, unlike the other earlier hallways this one's more cold, more calloused, the lights and warmth are all gone now. This is where I held it, this is where I hide them all. My steps echo as I travel deeper into it, whispers fill my head, voices calling out from the doors. I try to shut them out, but they don't listen, they never listen. Yes, it's here, though, I know it. I then find the door, so small and unnoticeable one wouldn't find it unless they wanted to. I touch it, and it withers from the heat of my touch. I back away before I slowly shove it open.

XXX

I'm ten years old again, and still standing in the house at the scene. I can feel the innate fear coursing through me, and I can't control it at all. My legs still keep shaking yet I stand stiff still; my heart rate is elevated as I continue to stare at the body before me. I want to tear my eyes away from it but I can't, I can't move, I can't breathe, I can't do anything. Her legs are still broken and turned in unnatural positions, the M ever carefully carved m still bleeding through. Her haunting eyes keep staring at me, like she's calling me, blaming for this. As if her being dead is my fault. This is my fault, this is my fault. I slap myself and look again, this time trying to steady my heart rate. It's just a body, it's just a body.

John stands at the scene, though he's farther away by now. He turns to look for me through the dizzying crowds of police swarming through the household but can't find me. Newspapers reporters cram into the place too, and the flashing bright lights make me lightheaded. The air is so thick with people it's hard to move, or even breathe. A policeman then pulls me aside, he's saying something to me but I'm hardly paying attention to him. I try to look at him again but words don't seem to be coming out of his mouth. The only thing I can discern from him is a concern and worried expression on his face. He keeps asking me again and again but the words don't make any sense and I can't open my mouth to answer anyways. I quickly run away and he chases after me, but there are too many people and much too large of a crowd for him to ever find me again.

That's when I notice it, the picture frame on the dresser. This is why I came here, to find this. It's a simple silver one, one old but well kept. In the frame of it is a picture of Edna with another picture of some relative or another. It's so ordinary I wouldn't have normally noticed it, but standing here now, I realise something's off about it. Something's wrong with it, something's missing. When I reach out to grab it a painful shock courses through me, burning all the way to my bones. The pain is so strong, so powerful, I must have set it there myself. I wince at my own trap, even as I step away the pain still remains strong. I look at my hand to see burn marks, but of course, there are none. I look up to see everything is disappearing, the pictures melting like candles, the paintings dripping onto the floor, the people fade away like shadows. No, they're not disappearing, I'm disappearing. I'm fading away, I'm not sure even if I'm going to exist anymore. In desperation, I call out for John one last time and he turns to look back in my direction but by then I'm too far gone.

I open my eyes, though my other senses wake up before me. I cough, my throat is so dry like I've been screaming for hours. I lick my lips, which are dry and are covered in something bitter, most likely blood. I can taste now the blood in the back of my throat too now, it's so bitter, and my mouth's full of it. It's filling me, making it nearly impossible to not choke on it. I try to look around, but it's dark, I can't even see myself in here. I then smell the air, it smells full of chemicals like the lab, and ageing wood, and smoke? I breathe in again, yes smoke, filling the air all around me. I try to run away from the smoke, it's so thick now I can almost touch it, it burns to even try to breathe. I try to run but feel the quick yank of the metal shackles onto which my ankles are attached. I completely open my eyes this time, everything around me is burning to the ground. I'm in a fire again and trapped here too. I'm in Molly's lab I think, but I can't tell with all the smoke and ash. The ash hurts the worse, it burns my eyes to look more than a minute or so. Everything in here is dying, I can feel it, even I'm dying. I look, all my work, all my notes, all the letters burning, except the one clutched in my hand. Desperate to see what it reads I open it, only to see two words: "Miss Me?" I turn around to see someone, or something looking behind me but I'm all alone. I'm all alone in here to die. The walls begin to warp and cave in and can hear his voice echoing and taunting me from all the walls.

"Ring around the Rosies,  
Pocket full of posies,  
Ashes, ashes,  
We all fall down."

"There's an east wind coming, Sherlock, and I can't wait to see how it makes you dance."

Blood drips from the walls, and now I can't help but suffocate on the air, coughing and gasping between breaths, desperate still to try to live. I want to live, I need to live again. I want to make it out of here, I don't want to die here, I need to see her one last time. My desperation is futile, though; all I receive in return for my attempts is a distant cackle while the melody of the nursery rhyme blares louder and louder until it echoes in my mind and makes my ears bleed. I'm going to die here, I'm going to die here.

"Oh don't fight it, that's no fun. You're going love being dead anyways. Hermione already loves it." The shackles break and I see Hermione's body, grotesquely twisted on the ground like the other victims. I run over to her, praying she's still alive. When I get to her she's alive, but only barely, her eyes are starting to cloud over, and she's so pale, and even in the heat of the fire her body's so cold, so chilling. A large M is carved across her chest and she keeps coughing blood. Her voice is so weak when she tries to speak I can barely hear it.

"You could have saved me, Sherlock, you could have saved me." She keeps repeating this over and over, and it makes my head want to explode. The fire is out of control by now, the smoke much too heavy for me to even see. My chest is pounding and I try to scream over the roar of the flames but it's no use. No one is going to hear us, no one is here to save us. I'm going to die here. I'm already dying here, and it's not even worth it anymore to live.

 **Hermione POV**

I tap my foot on the floor, we've been out here for about half an hour now, and I'm getting sick of waiting here. "He'll be out in a minute or so, he usually is anyways," John says, trying to not look as equally annoyed as I am. I smile, but then pause my tapping, something's not right, something's off. I put my ear to the door to listen. Normally by now Sherlock probably would have said something but it's quiet, too quiet. I can't even hear him breathing in there. I knock on the door this time, but there's no indication of movement or even a reply of annoyance. I yell out his name and threaten to break down the door, still, nothing. Something's definitely off, something's definitely wrong now. John sees the look of panic written across my face and rushes to me.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

"There's something wrong there, there's something wrong with Sherlock."

John grumbles and yells his name at the door, but when he doesn't reply his eyes widen quickly and I start to panic more. Sherlock may ignore me, but he's always answered to John no matter what. His face goes hard. "Hermione, stand back." He then rams full force on the door, easily breaking it down.

I run quickly to him, stopping only a moment to stare at him. He's lying in the centre of his room on the floor. His whole body is convulsing, and he keeps wincing, like a kicked puppy. A shiny gleam of sweat covers his forehead and his movements are barely visible. I check his temperature, he's skyrocketed and his pulse is erratic, going from 100 beats per minute to almost nothing at all. He doesn't talk or say anything, only muttering under his breath nonsensical words. He keeps reaching desperately in the air, but for what I don't know. I sit beside him, my heart beating in my throat, what's wrong with him?

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" I keep shaking him.

"No, you can't have her- save her, you can't-" He keeps muttering that to himself over and over and over until the words themselves are just a blur of sounds.

"Sherlock!" I yell and slap him across the face, hard. Suddenly all the shaking stops, his breathing returns to a more normal pace, and while the fever's still there, the moaning for the moment has disappeared. I take a look at him, he still is in terrible condition, his heart rate is lower than usual and he's so pale, paler than even his usual vampiric standards. When he opens his eyes they're clouded, but when he sees me he completely awakens. He opens his eyes completely and a look of innate fear crosses his face. He reaches out and grabs my arm, hard. I'd never seen him look that scared before, I'd never seen that look of fear in him. I stand stiff still, half out of shock from him grabbing me, but also out of fear because of the expression on his face.

"It is you," He breaks out into a weak grin. "You're alive, you're alive Hermione." I smile at him.

"I'm here," I say, he gives me a weak grin, and with that, he blacks out again.

 **Author's Note**

Apologies for the extremely long hiatus! I have no real excuse except for the fact that life got a hold of me, and it was hard finding time to actually properly sit down and write this. Also, the story in itself I had to work and rewrite. I thank all though who still read this and waited for a new update. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, and I hope this won't be the last installment for a while. Anyways, thank you again for whoever is reading this, and please review!


	12. Charlotte's House

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 12. Charlotte's House**

 **Sherlock POV**

"For God's sake Sherlock you promise you would stay clean!" John yells. I grimace, this blasted headache still wouldn't go away and John's screaming didn't help either.

"I am clean," I grit my teeth.

"You were out for three hours Sherlock! Three hours!" John yells again, I wince, the headache worsening.

"Could you mind thinking a little less vocally? I still have a blasted headache mind you."

"Serves you right, you git!" John yells.

Hermione turns to look at me. She has an odd expression her face like she's expecting me to say something. I don't know why, though. "What did you see in there?" She asks.

I open my mouth to reply but stop, the memories of the ordeal flooding through me, the images flashing too brightly in my mind. The fire, the paintings melting, and Hermione... I unconsciously look at my hand and as expected I'm fine: no burn marks nothing. It didn't happen, it wasn't real, everything is fine. I turn to look at Hermione and remind myself again it was just a dream, a vivid hallucination at most. It felt so real, though, I had never experienced such pain when entering a memory before. Perhaps there was a good reason I had locked it, to begin with, maybe I should have listened to myself more. Even as I think about now it almost hurts too much, like I'm still breathing in that ash, my throat still even burns a bit. I was so out of control, even when I had gone down those types of memories I had never lost control like that. It was as if it wasn't even my memories I was reliving, but someone else's and I got stuck in them as a bystander. I keep staring at Hermione, I

I keep staring at Hermione, I can't help it. I want to look away, I don't want to keep staring but my mind refuses. My mind is in turmoil, trying to decide which reality is real. She's so alive and well, she isn't dead like the body I saw in there. She's perfectly fine, of course, she's fine, she should be fine. It was a dream, it was only a dream. Still, I can't help but feel this reality is the dream and I'm going to wake up again burning with no one to call to. Right now it feels so good, too good to be alive like I shouldn't be deserving this. Maybe I don't deserve this.

No, I won't tell them, at least, not yet. Even I don't know what happened in there, all of it is fractured into bits in pieces. Whatever information in there is too rough, too small for me to find easily now. I still have to clean it, make sense of it all. Finding all the pieces for it to make sense will take time, and right now I'm in no hurry to return to that burning lab. Maybe I won't tell them, they don't need to know. I don't even think I can tell them, and I don't ever want to. I don't want to tell them what I saw in there, I don't ever want to recall those memories. Sometimes it's best to those things inside of oneself instead of releasing your demons into the world. It'll be better if they don't know, it was better when I didn't know.

Hermione looks at me again with an odd expression on her face. I immediately turn away; if she sees my face she'll know something's wrong, that I'm hiding something and I don't want her to ask me about it. Even if she doesn't see my face, I'm not sure she won't ask about it. I can tell she's already suspicious about me. It's a bit annoying that she can read me this easily, that she knows me this easily, to be honest. I'm used to reading people and finding out what they're thinking, not the other way around. I've never had anyone able to read me this easily, even John thankfully can't tell what I'm thinking most of the time. Most people in the world can't tell what I'm thinking most of the time. Hermione though is, of course, different, and because of that, I need to be more careful. I have to keep myself more in check, I can't have her finding out too much, if anything, at all. I can't let her know what I remembered in there.

 **Hermione POV**

I frown, something's definitely off. He's avoiding eye contact with us, he's hiding something. What on Earth could it be this time? What could be more important or scarier than the letters? What else is there to the letters, what did he remember? And what did he mean when he said I was alive, why was he acting so afraid, so scared then? I had never seen him look so afraid and desperate, it scared me so much. I never want him to be like that, what did he see in there that scared him so much? Does he even remember that part, before blacking again? I guess not, considering he hasn't said anything about it. Then again, he hasn't said anything about his mind palace in the first place. I shake my head, he'll tell us eventually when he wants to, he has to. There's no point in forcing it out, even I know by now it's better for you to wait for him to talk. He promised us no more secrets, no more hiding anything. He promised we work on this, together. He has to tell us, he will tell us. He wouldn't break his promise, right?

Sherlock pauses and looks at a document, pulling it from the walls and quickly scanning it over. He breaks out into a smile, smiling gleefully like a child opening presents on Christmas morning. "What is it?" John asks.

"I know where we're going next," Sherlock says.

"And where's that?" I ask.

"We're going to visit an old friend,"

XXX

Charlotte's house looks different since the las time I came here. Maybe it's because of the lack of Halloween decorations but I can't help but feel that the house looks more lonely and sullen in itself. Perhaps it's because the last time I had come the circumstances had been so different. I was just a kid then, a naive one at who was still thinking that maybe Charlotte might want to become my friend. I had been so excited too, and hopeful even, so hopeful that this time would be different, that this time I might be able to fit in and be normal. Of course, I learned later in the year things don't happen like that, and reality is much crueller sometimes. Now I stand here, though, I only feel sick, my stomach is tied into knots. It was long ago, I was a completely different person then. Even as I remember it now it doesn't seem real, it feels like a dream I had of another lifetime.

"Are you sure about this, Sherlock?" I ask.

He nods. "Her father is the last person to see Finnigan alive, not to mention the fact that Finnigan's records show the last message Finnigan sent was to Charlotte's dad about work. Also, added to the fact that Finnigan was a former of employee of Charlotte's dad. So yes, I am sure about this." With that remark, he rang the doorbell.

Charlotte hasn't changed much, if anything, she looks even more like she's stepped out of a princess' fairytale or a top model magazine. She's an inch or two taller than me, but I can also tell she's skinnier than me too. Her smooth pale skin is perfect, as well as pretty much every part of her. She's cut her hair a little bit shorter, only reaching to her shoulders, but its curled perfectly like in the movies and rests perfectly on her shoulder, not a hair out of place. She's wearing makeup I think, but it's hard to tell considering how perfect she looked already even as we were kids and the fact she put it on so flawlessly. Even her t-shirt and short skirt are perfect, dressing as if waiting for Vogue to call her for an interview.

Unconsciously, I touch both my teeth, even though I know now they're normal size. I started using a spell to shrink my teeth this summer, after waiting years for them to shrink naturally and realising they would never be normally normal sized. I don't think anyone has noticed the change, certainly, Harry and Ron didn't, but I feel better now when they're normal. Still, even now sometimes it still bothers me a bit. My hair must look awful too. I had forgotten to do it this morning with all the chaos and busywork I had to do this whole summer. It hadn't bothered me much before, I had gone a lot of days recently without brushing my hair or trying to look nice, but now I realise how I awful I must look. I don't know why any of this is bothering me either, normally I try not to think about it. I guess it's because Charlotte is so pretty... and I'm... just me. Even as kids she had always been the pretty one, and I had never been it. I guess some things about people never really change.

Charlotte's face quickly contorts into disgust when she sees us both. "What do you want, freak?"

"I'm not here for _you._ I'm here to speak to your father; he's needed for a case." Sherlock says, trying not so subtly to keep the irritation out of his voice.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, you're still doing that? Still playing detective with that piggy Lover Boy neighbour?" Sherlock grits his teeth.

"He's not here anyways, he's on a business trip in China. Bu-bye now." She said, closing the door.

"You're lying, he had a business trip to China but he's been back for a week. He's currently still at work but he'll be coming home in about twenty minutes." I look at him incredulously, how did he know all of this? 5 minutes ago he didn't even know where Charlotte lived, much less what sort of company and trips he was taking. Did he figure all that out now, how did he even do that?

"How did you know that?" She asked.

"So I was right, wasn't exactly sure on the days." He started walking in and Charlotte opened her mouth in protest. "I'll let myself in," He said, hanging his coat on the coat rack. I reluctantly follow while Charlotte stares us down so hard you'd think lasers would start coming out of her eyes.

Sherlock quickly went to the living room, casually sitting the middle of the white leather coach. He casually put his feet on the edge, which of course were covered in mud. He then proceeds to grab the china pottery vase beside him and drink from it. "What are you doing you freak! Stop that!" She screams, snatching the vase before he could drink again.

"The water tastes awful anyway, you need to change out the water more often." He said.

"What do you really want, freak? It's not like you to come barging in my house in the middle of the summer."

"Trust me I would avoid you so I can avoid losing brain cells every minute you open your mouth." She growled under her breath.

"I already told you, it's for a case involving your father. A client hired me." He said casually.

"What's she doing here?" She said, ignoring me as if I'm not in the room.

"She's the client."

Charlotte whips around to face me. "Oh, so that's what this is all about, isn't it? It all makes sense now. This is your whole revenge plan against me, isn't it? This is your way of getting back at me from all those years ago. And using Sherlock too... why you could create the perfect plan! You think now you can do anything, can't you? You think you're just perfect."

"Charlotte-" Sherlock began, but it's too late, she's already reeling.

"So what are you going to do, Hermione? Blackmail me and my dad, sue us for all our money? Falsify some sort of evidence for this little 'case' of yours? Try to somehow blame my dad for some crime or another?"

"Charlotte..." Sherlock warns. She merely scoffs.

"I always knew you were low Hermione; I always knew your goody-two-shoes thing you did was just an act. You were never good, you were always as rotten as the rest of us. You just had to pretend, though, you had to pretend to be the smarter, better person, didn't you? But even this, even this is low for you Hermione. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, once a freak, always a freak. And you're the worst freak of them-" Out of nowhere Sherlock comes from behind her and slaps her.

He turns to face me, and goes beside me, not saying a word. I can feel the sudden anger coming off of him, it practically radiates from him, making him almost glow. He unconsciously wraps his arm around me, and his other hand is wielded tight into a fist. I don't think he notices himself wrapping his arm around me; he's too busy staring at Charlotte, waiting for the next move.

For a moment she stands stock still, her hand only moving over her cheek, the sting still fresh. She stands in shock for a while before she notices him wrapping his arm around me and laughs madly. "So that's how it is, isn't it? I always knew you two never hated each other and would end up together, and why shouldn't you? Freak detective boy and freak witch, the perfect freak couple there is!" She wipes her eyes. "Oh, this is too much. I thought I'd never see the day!" Sherlock's hands tighten around me, his jaw tightens too. I can't fully see his face but I can feel the anger radiating off him even more.

"He slowly steps towards Charlotte, using his height to tower over her. His face is dark and Charlotte stops laughing, though she's still smirking, confident as even. The air grows cold and the tension becomes so thick it chokes me. He speaks so softly I can barely hear him. "I know 118 ways to kill you, 52 to make it look like a suicide. I've never had to use the information, but there are always firsts and I'm tempted now."

"I'll call the-"

"Security? Please, I already know the minute you push the button on the underside of your bracelet the security will come. You've never called it before, though, you're never had to, I can tell by how you fidget and run your fingers over the button. Now judging by the size of your living room and the echoing of your voice previously I would say it would take 10 seconds for them to respond, 20 seconds to arrive here, maybe 15 if they're fast. That leaves us at minimum 25 seconds, but most likely 30. Approximately that's enough time to leave your front door, or at least make us look innocent.

For a moment she's silent, before smiling smugly again. "You think you're so clever, freak. You always have to prove it don't you? Always the smart one, always the freak. Well, you forgot one big detail freak. She points a security camera hidden in the corner. "Say hello to Alfred, he and his friends are constantly monitoring this whole estate. Everything you said can and will be used against you now." She glances over at me, smiling even more smugly.

Sherlock laughs to this, causing Charlotte to break her moment of ease. "What's so funny?" She snaps, her voice wobbles a bit when she speaks.

"You think you're clever too, Charlotte, but you also forgot one important detail."

"And what's that?"

"We're standing in the blind spot." he whispers.

Her eyes widen. "there's still audio, there's still proof!" She says, her talking is quick and to the point of being nearly nonsensical, her voice is unsure, wobbly, and far less arrogant now.

"Why do you think I whispered? Charlotte, admit it, you've lost yet again to the detective freak. Not even your petty money or pointless power from your father can save you from this. Now I have one request."

"And what is that... freak" She says,though she makes freak sound more like a compliment than an insult.

"Give me, your phone."

XXX

By the time we left, Sherlock was in an even worse mood than when we had entered. Charlotte's dad was even less helpful than Finnigan had been, and we both soon realised where Charlotte inherited her wonderful nature. If anything, he was even worse than Charlotte, frustrating Sherlock to no end when we tried to question him. Because we didn't have any official muggle authority to back us and couldn't use the muggle police as a form of intimidation, Charlotte's dad didn't take seriously at all. If anything, he tried to make a laughing stock out of us. So, after a pointless hour and a half of trying to interview him but ending up debating him, I forced Sherlock to leave. Partly out of my own irritation at both of them was becoming too much to handle and partly because I was afraid Sherlock might lose his temper completely and get us kicked out or arrested.

It's been 10 minutes now and Sherlock's still fuming. He keeps clasping and unclasping his hands into fists, and he looks ready to punch a hole in the wall. "So... can you really do that?" I ask.

he turns to look at me. "Do what?"

"Kill people in 118 different ways?"

A shadow of a smile breaks across his face. "No, but it sounded more intimidating, didn't it? The look on her face was priceless."

I shake my head but can't help but grin. "You didn't have to do that, you even scared me a bit. I can't imagine how much you scared her, you made yourself seem like some bloody psychopath."

He shrugs, "Even if I hadn't, she already thinks I am. Besides-" He says, clasping his hands into fists again. "She called you a freak." He spits out the last words like poison. I had never seen him hate something so much, it scares me, I don't know if I ever want to see him this angry.

"It's not like the first time I've been called a freak you know. I can take care of myself, besides, she called you it too." I point out.

"I'm used to it, though, things changed more when you left." He said.

I struggle to say something, to find the right words. I want to make him less angry, I want to comfort him, but I don't even know what to say. What can you say to someone who when you left you told them you hated them? What can you say to make all the hatred people harbour against him and the years of harsh words go away? What can you even say to make that pain feel okay? I open my mouth, but all I can manage to say is a small 'oh'.

Suddenly without a word, he grabs my hand, gripping it so hard it hurts. I turn to look at him, partly because of the pain, and partly out of shock, but he's turned away from me. I can tell he's blushing hard, though, his neck even has a pink tinge to it. I'm blushing hard too. All the heat from before rush to my face. His pulse in my hand is so strong and so close it beats through my wrist, and it's going fast too. My own pulse is beating so fast and loud, I'm pretty sure even the people across the street can hear it. It echoes through my head and ears, pulsing all throughout me.

He turns to look at me, his face shocked at my apparent expression. "You're blushing." He states.

"Shut up and keep walking you git," I reply, hoping my face hasn't turned redder. He opens his mouth to protest but smartly decides to shut it. We walk hand in hand all the way back to John's.

 **Author's Note**

And that's a wrap! Apologies for publishing a bit late, this morning I was taking part of an important march and didn't get home to write this until much later. Even though I don't think I would like her in real life, I've always liked Charlotte, or at least writing about her. She's an interesting character, though not one I would ever meet she is much smarter than even she gives herself credit for. Also, fun fact: apparently when lovers hold hands or are close to each other, their heartbeats sync together. Anyways, thank you for reading and please review! :)


	13. The Bet

**Author's Note  
** In this universe, I do not own Harry Potter or Sherlock, unfortunately.

 **Chapter 13. The Bet**

 **John POV**

I groan, moving out of bed, what time is it? It doesn't feel like I've slept long, considering I had to stay up until 1 AM again helping Sherlock with another part of the case. I swear that boy doesn't ever sleep, maybe there's more truth to the rumours of him being a vampire, or at least partly. Coffee and sheer stubbornness can't be the only thing keeping him awake for 20 hours a day. With a jolt, I realise something's off, one, I woke up on my own. I haven't woken up on my own since I was 10, Sherlock always somehow woke me up because he became bored. Secondly, there's daylight, if Sherlock was feeling gratuitous, he might've waited, but he never waited until it got light out to do anything. I look over at my alarm clock and my eyes widen. The alarm clock reads 8:00, I never get to sleep in until 8:00. Believe me, I've even tried, but every lock I've put on my window or door has either been broken, or he found another entrance into my room. Why didn't he wake me up today, especially with how important this case is? What's he doing, where is he? Is he okay?

I rush out of my room, sloppily putting on a pair of jeans and t-shirt while simultaneously trying to grab my house keys and a jacket. I then go back into the room, grabbing the fire extinguisher I bought last summer because God knows what Hell Sherlock's cooked up this time, especially since he didn't tell me. I haven't been able to use the fire extinguisher, I hope I won't need to today. "Mum left breakfast on the table, hey where are you going and why are you-"

"Sherlock."

Harriet rolls her eyes. "Let's hope he didn't set his room on fire for the third time." I glare at her.

"Relax, John, he probably forgot about it, you know how involved he gets into his work," Harriet says.

"He didn't wake me up, I slept in until 8."

Harriet pauses. "Better bring the fire extinguisher, just to be safe."

I run out of the house and try to text him, but of bloody course, he doesn't respond when I text him. He never bloody responds to any of my stupid texts yet always expects me to answer in less than a minute! Of all days too, with all the chaos that's been happening, and he's still not answering his phone! I curse under my breath, please don't be drugs, please don't be drugs. He promised he wouldn't, but I still don't trust him completely after that one summer. I shake my head, no, he's not going to go down that path again, he won't ever break down like that again. I call him twice, but it all goes to voicemail. After cursing more of a storm in the middle of the neighbourhood I decide to go to his house. At least then, Hermione might be there or Mrs Holmes might have a clue on where he is.

I fumble with my keys in my pocket and unlock the Holme's door. Last year, Mrs Holmes had given me a spare set after deciding she didn't want me to break into the house every time Sherlock texted me at 1 in the morning because unlike Sherlock sneaking out of the house, I was apparently like a bull in a china shop. This was of course after she had attempted to stop me from breaking in or letting Sherlock sneak out, but after 15 different locks, a security system, and even a guard dog, she gave up and decided to give me the keys. When I enter Mrs Holmes is standing in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea.

"Where is he?!"

"Sherlock? Oh, he's in his room, John-" I race down the hallway, and pause, hearing shouting, though I can't tell who it is. All the terrible scenarios playing in my head come to an all time high. That's it, I've had it! I kick down the door only to see Sherlock and Hermione standing in the middle of the room, caught up as usual in a debate.

Sherlock turns to look at me and sighs. "Did you have to break down the door again? This is the fourth time this year you know. Mum's not going like that you did this again. Perhaps you've heard of the term of knocking?"

"What the bloody hell?! I thought you were dying or had exploded the house again!"

"Is that why you brought the fire extinguisher? Really, John, even I wouldn't be stupid enough to do experiments in my room with all the evidence."

"Well, I wouldn't have bloody brought it if I didn't think I would never need to use it," Hermione smirks.

Sherlock's brows furrow in confusion. "Why would you think I'm in danger, the house doesn't have any smoke coming from it and at the moment I've done only sane rational things. In fact, this might be the sanest I've been all summer."

"You didn't wake me up and I-"

Sherlock's eyes brighten. "Oh, right. I was going to but Hermione threatened to handcuff me to the bed if I even tried to leave the room. Apparently, she wanted you to get more sleep, saying I was keeping you up late too many nights and you had already done enough work." He says, shrugging nonchalantly. Suddenly I'm tempted to swing the extinguisher right at his head.

"But the shouting-"

"Ah, yes, about that, I was just about to prove to Hermione that she is, yet again wrong-"

"I'm not wrong-" Hermione retorts.

"Do you really think that-"

"Wait, what are you guys arguing about this time?" I ask.

A faint smile creeps along Sherlock's face. "Not arguing, John, betting."

 **Sherlock POV**

"A bet?" John asks incredulously, I roll my eyes but check where the fire hydrant is, in case John loses his temper.

"It's not really, considering I'm obviously the more intelligent one."

"This morning you didn't even know the Earth went around the sun!"

"That's because it doesn't matter if we go around the sun or not! It's irrelevant, we're not colliding into the sun anyways!"

"You don't know that!"

"We're not dead yet are we?" I roll my eyes again.

I turn to look at John, who keeps smirking to himself. He's been doing it more often lately, though why he keeps doing that is beyond me. He always does it at odd moments too. I've asked him before about it, but he's always just said he's thinking, never going into more detail. Sometimes I can sort of guess it, but this time I don't even know what it could possibly be. I frown, whatever it is I don't trust it for sure. Because if I know one thing for sure, whatever he's thinking, it's going to involve me and most likely Hermione. "So how are you two exactly going to, uh, test this theory?" John asks.

"Simple, we're going to quiz each other on some trivia questions," I say.

"Oh you can't do that, that's a terrible way to indicate it."

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Well, it's because each of your knowledge skill sets are so different. What you both are well versed in, are completely different. For example, Sherlock, you may be able to name 250 different types of poisons, but I'm pretty sure Hermione can name more top 100 pop songs than you."

"What do you propose we do then?" Hermione asks.

John smiles, I definitely don't trust him. "I'm glad you asked."

 **Hermione POV**

"A memory test?" I ask.

John nods. "It's perfect because both of you will be on equal standing since you won't have prior knowledge. Since you both know so much about different topics, it's impossible to quiz you both on the same subject. This way, you'll each have a fair chance."

"How's it work?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, it'll go in rounds. We'll start with five numbers you'll each have to memorise, and then in each round, we'll add a number. Whoever can memorise the most, wins. I'll be the one reading the numbers off, of course, and you'll both have different number sequences." John says.

I frown, looking at John's smirk, something's fishy about this, John has something up his sleeve. What is John thinking this time, why on Earth does he want to help us with our bet, what could he possibly gain? Usually, he absolutely hates when we argue, but why is he smiling like this, this time, why is he acting so calm when a moment ago I could've sworn he was about to swing that fire extinguisher at Sherlock's head five minutes ago. I shake my head, what does John want to happen, why is he proposing this? What's the catch?

"There is one difference, though, the winner decides a punishment to the loser," John says. I understand now, higher stakes will make us both more competitive, and not to mention he'll get to see loser's punishment without being affected. Who does he want to win, though? Who does he think will win?

"Punishment?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing serious or anything, just something embarrassing like having to declare in the middle of town you love Britney Spears. It gets boring if it's only bragging rights."

I pause, John is planning something with this. The problem is, I don't know who he wants to win. "We'll do it then," Sherlock says, without hesitation. John smiles.

"What about you, Hermione?" he asks.

"I'll do it if it means it proves I'm smarter," I say. John smiles again.

"When do we start?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe in an hour or two? It'll give you both enough time to prepare." John says. I frown, what on Earth could he be thinking?

 **Sherlock POV**

I immediately resort back into my mind palace, deleting every bit of useless or currently irrelevant information. I smile, this will be a piece of cake. Hermione's smart, even more brilliant than me in most things, but when it comes to core memorization, I have the better one for sure. This isn't to say her memory is terrible, but I've spent years systematically creating my mind palace, and now I'll use it against her to win. I smile thinking of all the possibilities of punishments I could do to her; it's endless. This'll be easy, I'll win for sure, I have to win, I'm practically guaranteed it.

I pause, now that I think of it, why did John propose this in the first place? Before I hadn't given it much thought, the rules had been simple enough and he had sounded logical and fair in his assumption that our prowess in knowledge was completely different. I hadn't given it much thought because it had sounded like a good idea, and the prospect of punishment to the loser sounded even better. Now, though, why did he choose a memory test? John has to know I statistically should win, why would he want me to win? What does he gain from me winning, why would he care about our bet? It's not like he usually cares or anything, but why this time, and why with such higher stakes at hand? Does this have to do with that idiotic smirk he was wearing on his face? I shake my head, it doesn't matter why he wants me to win or why he chose this. All I know is that I have to win, there's no way I'm letting Hermione do any punishment to me. I have to win, and I will.

 **John POV**

Both of them meet at my house, since its the only neutral ground. Sherlock has, as usual, a smug smirk on his face, walking with an arrogant air so thick you could even see it. Hermione is smiling too, still confident as ever. "Let's begin," I say.

I read them off the five numbers and slowly add one, then another and then another, each of them doing it with ease. Both are unrelenting, unhesitant, and of course perfect. I shake my head, how long is this going to go? I hadn't thought it would go this long, maybe only 20 minutes at the most. After 50 rounds I have to make up my own digits, but each doesn't hesitate at the jump. If anything, it fuels them even more, each speeding through the number combinations faster and faster.

I shake my head and begin studying each of them. Sherlock, while trying not to show it, is extremely nervous. He's keeping his face placid, his voice even, but there's a slight bow to his legs and his hands keep twitching, a nervous tick he's had since we were kids. I haven't seen him this nervous in a while, I had forgotten the nervous tick he had. I had expected this to be an easy win for Sherlock, I was expecting it to be quicker too. He was expecting both of those to come easily to him, and now that we're to the 200s in rounds, he's not mentally prepared himself as much for it, which is why he's so nervous. Neither of us expected her to be able to keep up with him this far.

I look over at Hermione, and I can tell more openly she's nervous too, her legs shake a little as she recites, her voice is more uncertain and strained. She sways back and forth as she thinks, but she's also strangely calm. Not exactly a completely confident calm but just about, it's almost as if she's expecting to win like she's already won it and is just going through the motions. It's like she's predicted from the start she was going to. I shake my head, how on Earth is she doing this?

 **Hermione POV**

Okay, so I might have cheated a little bit. But how was I supposed to compete against him, with his stupid infinite mind palace? All I did was give myself an edge like he already had, making sure the playing grounds would be fairer. Besides, there's no way I was going to let that arrogant git beat me so easily.

Right before we had started, I had drunk a potion I had learned in the restricted section of the library at Hogwarts. It's a brain enhancer potion which increases the user's brain in all aspects, but especially memory, making the capacity 50 times more than usual. The effects are obviously temporary, but it lasts long enough, an hour, enough time to beat Sherlock.

For obvious reasons, the book was put in the restricted section. It apparently became on the banned list in the 1880s after a bunch of students made the potion and began selling it to every student in Hogwarts. Once the teachers found out it resulted in a week of detest taking, another banned test item along with talking quill pens and stuff of that nature, and the book being forever put in the restricted section of the library. Still, I find it odd they didn't try to destroy the book, sure the brain enhancer is dangerous, but there are even more dangerous spells in here that could cause actual serious damage. It, in fact, might be better to ban the book, it's not like it's impossible to enter the restricted section of the library. It's all odd, but then again it's Hogwarts and it's always been a bit of that.

XXX

The headmaster sat at his desk, weary from yet another long day. It had been a long week; after the potions fiasco, he and all the teachers at Hogwarts had been spending the past week trying to fix it: catching the potion makers, making every student in every class retake their winter exams, and of course all 500 bottles of the potion. This morning the last class had taken their potions exam, making the end of the whole ordeal.

"Headmaster, I brought the book," The headmaster looked up.

"Yes, yes, bring it in," The assistant laid it on the table, flipping to the memory potion page.

"What would you like us to do with it, sir?" the assistant asked.

"Well, put all the copies you can find in the restricted section. Tell Librarian Wormwood to mark it now as a restricted book from now on."

"And the potion page, sir?"

The headmaster paused, while he wanted in all his best interest for this incident to never repeat him or any successor headmaster, he disliked the idea of altering or even completely erasing the potion's recipe from history. While it had been done before, it was rare and highly frowned upon, he including himself. It's libel to do such an act, offensive not only to the creator but to wizardkind itself. The potion, while in the wrong hands it may have caused trouble, it was not the potion to blame for all this mishap, and the potential of good was equal if not greater. To simply destroy one's work without further thought was highly frowned upon, if not dangerous. No, he wouldn't simply be a fool and destroy it all, there had to be another way.

He looked at the page, noticing an odd ingredient. "Assistant, isn't rabbit's foot typically used as an elongator in potions?"

She nods. "The potion you is based off an old spell which granted temporary infinite knowledge. This isn't the first type of its kind, people had been making this kind of potion for hundreds of years, but this one is the only kind that's long lasting. Without the rabbit's foot, though, it's temporary like all it's predecessors, lasting only about ten minutes at the most."

The headmaster brightens. "Scratch out the ingredient of rabbit's foot in all the copies of the book. That way, if anyone does attempt to make this again, we won't have the incident like last time."

"Should we change the time too?"

"No, we better not, it's best not to have the complete potion recipe. It'll be yours and my secret to keep."

XXX

"And that's the last of them!" Librarian Wormwood said, dropping off the last ten books. She began to open them, but the assistant declined.

"I'll take care of the last copies, it's far too late and we'll have many problems to face tomorrow no doubt." The librarian eyed her sceptically but left, leaving the assistant alone.

She sighed, slowly changing each of the pages, but when she got to the last book, she hesitated. While she knew the headmaster was right in some ways, and she dared not disobey him, but she also knew there were other things wrong about this too. She admired and respected the headmaster's wish to not destroy the potion, but this wasn't the right way either. Yes, this potion was dangerous, but the potential for good was highly in there too. While removing the rabbit's foot seemed a good option, she knew perhaps there might be a day when Hogwarts or even wizardkind might need to use it one day. To completely erase and alter it all, when it could be needed the most and to remove it was wrong, and she couldn't simply allow it to happen. Yes, it was a danger to keep it, but the good of it will outweigh it when it is needed.

She made the one and only biggest decision in her life, and the only choice that's ever gone against the headmaster. She kept one copy of the book unaltered and hid it with the rest.

 **John POV**

It's been an hour now, and we're to 500 digits. It's Sherlock's turn now. "49345-" He pauses for a moment, and for the first time I see him hesitate. "7893." He eyes widen, realising his mistake.

"Sherlock, the numbers are _7494_ , not 7893," I say.

"Hermione, it's your turn," Slowly Hermione begins to recite, and she finishes...perfectly. For a moment, no one says anything, Hemione is frozen in place, her head seemingly trying to register it. Sherlock's even worse, his head can't fully accept it.

"Oh my God. Oh my god. Hermione, you won!" I yell. Hermione's face brightens for a moment, before turning to Sherlock and smiling smugly at him. Sherlock unsurprisingly, is now into another sultry mood, though he doesn't seem surprised by it now.

"Who's the better one now?" Hermione asks.

"You got lucky," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.

I then smile smugly. "Hermione, you still have your punishment to think about," I say. Sherlock's eyes widen before shooting me a death glare in my direction that any normal person would be scared stiff by. Fortunately, it's not the first one he's shot me.

He then turns to Hermione and his eyes widen in fear when he sees Hermione's expression. I don't think I've seen him this scared over anything like this. When Hermione looks at his face, she only laughs, causing Sherlock to act even more annoyed and sultry, his ears turning slightly pink. "Hmm... What should I do..." Hermione pauses for a while 'thinking,' which drives Sherlock crazier.

"Just get it bloody over with," Sherlock grumbles.

"Fine then. Sherlock, you have to go to a movie with me, and _I_ get to pick it." Hermione says.

"WHAT?" Sherlock screams. I could only laugh, imagining what tomorrow would bring.

 **Author's Note**

Well, that finishes up a rather long (longer than I expected chapter). Fair to warn you, the next chapter or two will mainly be fluff, there won't be much plot pe se happening, really. Ideally, I'll try to contain it in one chapter, but most likely it will be two. Anyways, I've always thought that Sherlock was never the only person with Slytherin like attributes, for me John and especially Hermione both have it within them, they're just better at hiding it. Sherlock especially doesn't see it in John, because while he does admire him partly, I think for a while he underestimated him, or at least didn't think he was as capable as he was. Hermione, on the other hand I've always thought would fit well in Slytherin purely because her ambition to do things for her friends was so strong. Anyways, thank you for reading and please review!


	14. The Date Part 1

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 14. The Date**

 **John POV**

Today's the day. I haven't seen either of them all morning, both I guess too preoccupied with the task at hand. I can't help but smile to myself, I can't wait to see how this plays out. I decide to visit Sherlock, just to see how he's handling the whole ordeal. As usual, he's locked his door, but as I soon as I knock on he opens it. I burst out laughing when I see him. In all my life since I've known Sherlock he's hated wearing anything nicer than his usual grubby lab clothes. Even when we were kids he hated it, and I can only name three occasions where Mrs Holmes made him look decent. The first one was the first day of school, the second was at his Aunt's wedding (which he later dressed into striped bee pyjamas for the after party) and the third was for his elementary graduation. I didn't even know until now that Sherlock owned any nice clothes or any clothes that didn't have any chemical stain or hole in it.

Now, though he stands before me in an almost complete suit, with a white collared shirt, black slacks, black wedding shoes, and even a black bow tie to match it all. He had haphazardly tried to tie a bow tie, but it was a pathetic failure, making the bow look more like depressed bunny ears, with the left being overly lopsided to the right. He had tried to slick back his hair, but it looked, wrong, even awkward on him. If anything, it made him look even more like Dracula. All in all, he looks terribly out of place, like he was attending a funeral or a wedding instead of the movies.

"Where did you even get all this from?" I ask.

"Mycroft made me buy it two summers ago," He replies, messing with the tie.

I sniff the air and quickly go back retching. "Are _you_ wearing cologne? How much did you put on? The whole bottle?"

He grits his teeth. "I didn't know much it sprayed the firs time."

"Where did you even get it from?"

"I stole it from your bathroom."

"Why are you even wearing this? She's only taking you to the movies, not to see her Majesty."

"Girls like boys who are well dressed.

"Since when do you know what girls like?"

He reluctantly pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. I unwad the crinkled mess, which's been folded and refolded at least ten times. It's a news clipping, cut out from some girl's gossip fashion magazine or another. Written on it are critiques by 'real girls' and an image of the 'ideal man'. "Where did you get this from?" I ask incredulously.

"Harriet," he mumbles. I bust out laughing.

"First off, don't take any advice on dating from my sister, especially if it comes from a magazine, even if she is a girl," I say, scruffing his hair.

"That took me an hour to gel, I had to use half of the bottle." He complains.

"You want to impress, Hermione, don't you?" I ask.

"I never said that."

"Then who are you doing this for?"

"Research of course, since I'm being forced into this 'punishment' I might as well learn something useful from it. I might need this information for a case." I roll my eyes and begin to untie the bow.

"The bow stays." I roll my eyes, but oblige, tightening it so it looks half decent.

"Better?" He asks.

I take a step back, fully examining him. The bow now looks better, and while his clothes are too formal, he's loosened them a bit, making them look more scruffed, more worn into, more comfortable on him. His hair, now ungelled, has returned to its usual chaotic mess. In fact, the only nice 'formal' looking clothing on him now is the bow. Everything else is in the usual Sherlock manner, sort of skewed, chaotic, and even scattered across messily. I take a look back at the photo in the stupid magazine. While he might have passed before for it, he definitely doesn't now. He would never have ever in the first place, he wasn't meant to. This look is more like him, and it suits him more.

"Much better,"

The doorbell rings and then Hermione walks in. She's dressed more casually than Sherlock but still better than her usual attire of giant sweaters and sweatpants. She's wearing a faded white t-shirt and new jeans, or they don't appear to have any ink stains or small rips and tears in them yet. She's not wearing makeup I think, but somehow looks nicer, maybe she is but it's too subtle for you to notice it. Her hair, while still curly, looks purposefully done, every hair in line. I don't even know how she managed to do it, I can hardly recognise her without the wild mane.

"I told you I was coming to your house, I was supposed to meet you there," Sherlock grumbles.

"I got bored. Is that really what you're wearing? We're not going to a wedding, Sherlock." She says laughing.

"Let's get this bloody over with," Sherlock grumbles under his breath, and even though he's trying to look as irritated and annoyed as possible, I can tell he's secretly smiling.

 **Hermione POV**

I can't help but keep staring at him and it's driving me mad. Why did he have to dress so nice? He'd dressed so much nicer than expected, way nicer than expected, and I can't help but stare at him."Are you sure you don't want to change?" I ask.

"No, I want this ordeal to be bloody over." He says sarcastically.

"There are worse punishments you know," I reply.

I consciously look at my own outfit. While I am wearing new jeans I didn't wear the blouse because I thought it would be too fancy and girly. Now I can't help but reconsider it, considering Mr Fancy here. At least I had managed to pack enough Sleek Easy's to do my hair and remembered to do the glamour charm Padma and Parvarti had taught me. Stupid Sherlock, having to outdress me in his own punishment. Besides, why should I even care how I look, it's not like he's my boyfriend or anything. We're not even going on a date, we're just going to the bloody movies. We're friends, that's all, and this is the nicest punishment the git deserves.

I sigh, looking around at the scenery. I had always loved Swanford, it was my favourite place to live. I had missed it more than I had realised. It's a small town, but I like the quaintness of it, especially compared to the bustling busyness of London or the lovable chaos of Hogwarts. As much as I adore those places, it's nice to be in a quiet place with your own thoughts which aren't mainly about your well-being. Everything in Swanford is grounded, set in their ways. Things don't move as quickly, everything is at a slower pace. Nothing changes in the blink of an eye. Even the streets haven't changed since the last time I've walked across them. The same buildings stand, looking as if they've stood there since the beginning of time. The movie theatre lies in the centre of the street, hanging on by its last legs, the pin-striped columns which may have once been brightly red now faded into a salmon pink. In the centre of the building is a classic white bulbed sign, saying 4045 theatre. On the sides of the walls are old movie posters browning on the edges with classic American stars such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn.

We enter the theatre, and inside it feels smaller, but that's only because the hallways are so narrow. Hardly anyone is inside, and I can see why. The place has seen better days, which may be even an understatement. The air smells of a mix of melting candies, buttery popcorn, mildew, and dust. Half of the lights are either broken or not functioning, and the ones that do work are so dimly lit you can hardly see your own hand. The carpet floor is torn, with various spills over the years accumulating on it. Perhaps it's better for the lights to be so dark.

In the centre of the entrance is a concession stand/ticket booth, which is only run by a single teenager sitting in the corner while playing on his phone. "Um, excuse me?"

He turns to look at me, standing straight when he notices me. He's lanky, but not exactly in the threateningly tall way like Sherlock. He's more disproportionate, with overly long legs and limbs, like a man made of stretched out taffy. He has bright red hair and big, downturned green eyes, which give him a sort of naive look. In an odd way, he sort of reminds of Ron. "How may I, uh, help you?"

"2 tickets for the 2:30 showing, please," I say.

"Right away, anything else?"

"Just some caramel popcorn please,"

"Of course, you know I never caught your name-" he stiffens.

"What is it?"

"Oh um, nothing Miss. Uh, you and your girlfriend enjoy the showing-"

"She's not my girlfriend," Sherlock says bitterly, gritting his teeth. He snatches the tickets from the boy's hand and shoves it into his pocket.

I furrow my brows. "That was odd, did he seem to be acting oddly to you Sherlock?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock says. I shake my head, it must have been my imagination.

XXX

Inside, the movie theatre has even fewer people than the entrance. 1 couple is behind us making out, another couple a row in front of us watching the movie, and in the far corner is a grandmother with her three grandkids. By the time we walk in, the movie's already playing.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Can we go now?"

I punch him in the arm. "Hush, we've only been here for 20 minutes."

"And it's a waste of 20 minutes too, nothing's happening. Besides, logically space travel doesn't work that way. It actually-"

"Hey, can you make your boyfriend shut up? Unlike some people, some of us are trying to watch the movie!" Says the couple below us.

"She's not my girlfriend!" Everyone hushes him in the theatre.

"If anyone wants to watch this inaccurate space junk trash then be my guest," Sherlock mutters. He remains quiet, though, until the introduction of Darth Vader.

"Oh come on! What's with the voice, does he seriously breathe like that for the whole entire movie?" Sherlock complains.

"Hush, haven't you ever seen a Star wars movie?"

"No, and I'm glad I haven't until now."

"I told you to shut up, didn't I?" Ask the couple again.

"Well just watch the movie, I'm sure his breathing is louder than my necessary commentary on this pathetic piece of film." He grumbles. By the 5th time (after commenting on how the physics of lightsabers wouldn't work) the couple called the staff on us. Which resulted in us having to escort out of the theatre.

 **Author's Note**

Apologies for the late update, as I was still trying to sort of piece together this to make coherent sense. I've decided to split the scene over 2 chapters. Partly because it's more convenient, and the last scene is a bit too big for me to add to this. Apologies as I won't be able to update next week, but I will be back soon. I'll try to publish the next chapter tomorrow, so as to at least be up to date with the story so far. Thank you for reading and please review!


	15. The Date Part 2

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 14. The Date**

 **Sherlock POV  
**

"I can't believe you got us kicked out of the movies!" Hermione fumes.

I roll my eyes, she's ranted about this for 10 minutes now. "It was a terrible movie anyways,"

"Maybe for you, but I was trying to watch it! I might've too if it wasn't for your incessant commenting every five minutes!"

"Besides-" She points an accusatory finger at me. "Since when did you know so much about space?"

"I had to know it for a case," I say bluntly.

"Yeah right, hogwash." She says, laughing.

"How did you even know we were going to watch the movie?"

"I didn't know,"

"Oh, so you just happened to know so much about the physics of a lightsaber even though you've never seen the movies before?"

"I told you I needed to know it for a case," I say, but she's already laughing too hard to hear me.

Even though it's still relatively early afternoon by the time we arrive at the park, hardly anyone's in it because it's so hot outside. "I'm still not sure if that punishment really counts," She says, sitting on the bench.

"I think it was sufficient enough and more,"

"You only saw the movie for thirty minutes."

"Which was a complete waste of thirty minutes mind you."

She laughs. "The movie didn't even both you much, didn't it? You're only peeved because everyone kept thinking I was your girlfriend." She pauses.

She pauses. "Which is ridiculous considering you wouldn't want a girlfriend? Which is crazy, isn't it?" She asks, looking at me.

I turn to look at her, and really look at her. A part of me keeps screaming to turn away, to stop looking, but I keep staring. My brain is on haywire, memorising and categorising every detail about her, and I want to remember every detail. I want to remember how her freckles scatter across her cheeks like stars, how her wide brown eyes light up when she realises something. I want to remember every wild wisp of hair blowing in the breeze. I want to remember her, and this moment so badly, I can't help but look at her. I can't help but keep staring like this is the last time I'll see her.

Would I ever want a girlfriend? No, I wouldn't. For some, it may fit their idyllic lives with some sort of 'meaning' but for me, it wouldn't. If anything, it would be a distraction, a nuisance, an annoyance in which I would have to waste time caring about. Sentiment and other chemicals are only chemicals in the mind, an evolutionary byproduct to make sure our genes passed onto the next. Effective as they were then, they have no place in the modern world. Certainly, they don't belong in my life.

Yet I can't deny this odd emotion flooding me when I look at her. I can't explain why I can't turn away, why I still keep staring at her like this. I can't explain why my mind becomes haywire, why my heart pounds so loudly in my chest, why I feel as if every nerve impulse in me is on fire. I can't explain my thoughts either, why even though she isn't my girlfriend or anything of the sort, I want to move closer to her, I want to hold her hand. I'm so afraid of her leaving now, I'm so afraid of her leaving my life again. I don't want to go to the life I had before anymore, I don't want to go to back to the dark place. She's like a fire in the dark, the darkness is still there, but with the light it's okay. Yes, she's a fire, radiating, burning with excitement, giving off light anywhere she goes. I can feel the warmth coming from her, and I realise how much light she gives into my life. I can't draw myself any closer, even though the light will get brighter. Because like all fires, if you get too close, if you let yourself fall, you'll burn.

I don't tell her any of this, though, I won't ever tell her any of this. Because these emotions, these odd feelings, that I can't make sense of, are stupid and if anything, illogical. They go against everything I've worked for, everything I believe in now. To admit it, and to even try to grow these feelings, would be disastrous to my mind. I repeat the mantra taught to me by Mycroft since I could walk, 'sentiment is not meant for the Holmes'. 'Sentiment is not meant for the Holmes'. Besides, even if I were to, it would never work out. This isn't some love-crossed movie where 'love' always wins. This isn't the type of film where everything works out because we're in love. Reality is never so ideal, sentiment, love, ties to people hardly ever end well. You might say I'm cynical, I'm too jaded for my own good. Love will do something for me, it will fulfil my life. I may be cynical, but at least I'm honest with myself.

Despite all the stories, the movies, the mantras we hold so dear, the final truth is that love doesn't have happy endings. The pot of gold doesn't exist for us at the end of the rainbow of sentiment. It would never work, she has her own life out there, and I have mine, here. We're not naive children anymore who could pretend the world was still right. We could still pretend and have days of thinking we would always be there for each other forever. We're too old to believe anything lasts that long anymore. Gone are the days of fantasies, science experiments, and other childish games. We're too old for that, far too old, and the times of magic are too far gone to go back. We can't go back, there's no point in living in them anymore. No, I won't ever tell her, this will be my secret to keep.

 **Hermione POV**

He keeps droning on and on about sentiment and how the chemicals are made in your brain and how they affect you. He keeps repeating it's all just science. All I want is to shut him up for a while, not a long time, but just for a moment to stop talking about science. I want to shock him so much that he doesn't talk about it, and then I might know the truth. I want to know the real truth, and the real truth might make him shut up for a while. So I kiss him on the cheek.

 **Sherlock POV**

She kissed me...

 **Hermione POV**

And he turns around and kisses me back.

 **Sherlock POV**

This is wrong, this is so very wrong, but I can't stop myself, I can't seem to control myself anymore. I like her too much, no, I love her too much to ever stop. My brain screams within me to get a grip on myself, to stop this before it hurts too much. It reminds me it'll never work, this will never happen again. It already sequenced what'll happen after, how she'll slap me and that'll be the end to all this. This will end like it was supposed to a long time ago. It keeps screaming at me to remind me of the empty pot at the end of the rainbow. This is no fairytale and I shouldn't live my life like it is one. I shouldn't play a hero I'm not. Yet despite how loud the screams are, they're blocked out by this rush of emotion. I can't stop myself, I don't want to stop myself. I don't want to know what happens because it hasn't happened yet. I want to live in the moment and remember everything about it. For once I want to stop thinking.

Is this how kissing works? Is this how it's supposed to feel? I don't know if I'm doing it right, I can't tell if this is a good kiss or not. I never imagined myself doing this in the first place. It does feel different from what I previously would have theoretically thought. It's messier, more out of control, it's not precise or articulate. It isn't something done and you feel nothing afterwards. I've never felt this out of control before, and strangely, I don't see myself complaining about it. Chemicals are all to blame for this, as they rush through me, my brain tries to name each one and how it affects the body. I can do it easily too, I've studied it too much. Oxytocin, dopamine, endorphins. I stop myself, I don't want to think about that now. I don't want to distract myself from the moment yet. I don't want to wake from this, so I focus on her.

Her lips taste salty sweet, a mix of overly sugary caramel and something else I can't pin down. Her mouth is also so hot, hotter than the burning sun or the sweltering heat surrounding us. In fact, every part of her is hot, I never realised before until now because I'm so close to her. She's radiating heat and light and warmth like she always does. She's a fire, and she's burning so bright, too bright. I'm burning now, I've come to close, I never thought I would come this close. I'm going to burn into ash soon, I know it. Yet I don't care anymore what happens after this, for the first time I don't care what happens. I'm freaking kissing Hermione Granger.

 **Hermione POV**

He's surprisingly cold, colder than one would expect on a hot summer's day. Then again, I didn't expect to stand this close either, I didn't expect any of this at all. Stupid Hermione, what did you think would happen? What did you think would happen when you kissed him? All I had wanted to do is to shut him up and now this is happening. While I didn't expect it, I can't say I hate it. In fact, I like this, I like this too much. It's as if I've always wanted this the whole time. Maybe I had wanted this the whole time, I just hadn't realised it.

My brain is screaming at me to get a grip. I need to get a grip because the reality of the situation doesn't support any of this. None of this is going to work. The flirting, the games, it was never supposed to end like this, it was never supposed to turn into this. It'll never work, destiny is not on our side. There are too many problems, problems in the world involving me and other people to fix. Those problems are life threatening too, Voldemort, the cases. Those problems need me, and I don't have the luxury anymore of being a normal teenager in which my biggest concern is how my hair looks. Falling in love doesn't work with my life anymore, I can't have the luxury of normality. I can't pull myself away either, though, I can't make myself do it. I don't want to do it, I want this moment of normality, I want to have this small and fleeting moment of feeling like a teenager. I want it so badly because I know this might be my last chance at it. So I kiss back because I know this will be our last and only kiss. I kiss back because this will have to go away and it won't come back. I kiss back because bloody hell, I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes and there's nothing I can do about it.

 **Sherlock POV**

I'm the first one to pull away, partly because I need to breathe, but also because I'm the first one to come to grip with reality. I'm the first one who wakes up from the fantasy, and I can still feel the sting as I realise the hopelessness of it all. This should have never happened, it's too impossible. I turn to look at her, she's blushing hard, maybe that's why she felt so hot. I'm blushing hard too, the heat rushing up my neck all the way to the tips of my ears. For a moment we can't seem to do anything but stare at each other, too out of breath to even move. I can't make myself move again, as I wait for her to slap me, wait for her to scream, yell, and even hit me. That would have been better than what she did, or rather doesn't do. She doesn't do anything but turn away, making me more broken on the inside.

I want to be angry at her, I want to scream at her, I want to say something to make this feeling go away. I hate this feeling, I wish I was angry at her, but I can't even bring myself to do it. I want to apologise so badly, I just want to talk and joke and act like it never happened. A part of me wishes it never happened because it complicates everything. We can't come back from that, we can't ignore it. I can't ignore it, and I still can't explain these irrational thoughts in my head. If anything, they've grown even more. Opening my mouth, I try to say something, but words don't come out. Besides, she wouldn't hear them. Eventually, I turn away, wondering what she's thinking.

 **Hermione POV**

Is he ashamed of what happened? Am I ashamed of what happened? Ironically I can't stand to look at him now when before I couldn't help myself. I can't make myself look at him because of what might happen next, and I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready for any of this now. What will he say, what will he do? What will I do? I can't even explain myself anymore, I'm giddy but not in a happy-go-lucky way. I shouldn't feel this way, I can't feel this way. My brain moves so slowly now, too slowly, like I'm underwater or in a trance. It can't make any sense of what happened, perhaps my brain doesn't want to comprehend it, it isn't ready to comprehend. Ever emotion possible rushes through me and yet nothing at the same time. Sherlock keeps remaining silent, is he waiting for me to talk? What should I even say to him, should I tell him this was a mistake? He of all people should know this will never work, no matter how much we want it. The flooding of emotions before when he kissed me is now slowly trickling, my heart rate is slowing, my breathing more normal. It doesn't feel good, though, I feel deflated. Heat rushes to my face, but I can't tell why now either. I can't make any sense of anything anymore; my brain doesn't want to function. I turn to look at Sherlock, but he's turned his face away.

Of course, he's ashamed, it was a mistake. We both know it will never work, we're not naive enough to believe that anymore. We're not kids who happen to be next-door neighbours. Once the summer ends this will end too, I'll go back to Hogwarts, and he'll keep doing whatever he does during the school year. I might visit him again for the holidays but even that sounds unlikely. With the threat of Voldemort in the wizarding world, any interaction with Muggles will become dangerous and I'm not going to endanger him. No, this will be my last summer with him, once this ends it all ends. No more fun and games, no more chatty debates and side-eyed glances to see if the other catches you. This will all have to end, not because I want it to, but because it simply was never meant to continue, it'll be like waking up from a long dream. Yes, this is all just a long dream and slowly coming to a close. Why then does it hurt so much when it's nearly time to wake up? why do I hurt so much on the inside when I realise my days are numbered with him? Why does it hurt so much when I know it will never work yet I want it to so badly?

Sherlock's phone rings and he picks it up. His face darkens. "What is it?"

"It's John... He's found another one."

 **Author's Note**

And the fluff ends here for a while! Apologies in advance for the might be torturous feelings the next few chapters may bring. I particularly struggled a lot with the scene, not exactly the kissing part but the aftermath and reaction to it all. It was easier to get in Sherlock's head but harder for Hermione, because I feel like she's the more 'emotional' of the two. It ended up a bit more bittersweet than initially intended but the story itself is a bit bittersweet in itself. Anyways, thank you for reading and please review!


	16. London's Bridge

**Author's Note  
** I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 16. London's Bridge**

 **Hermione POV**

"I'm sorry Sherlock-" John starts.

"Where is it?" Sherlock asks, his voice returning to its dry and detached self.

"It's over there-" Sherlock aimlessly shoves through the reporters swarming over the body, disappearing into the mass.

John pulls me aside, worry etched across his face. "How is he?"

I pause, considering how much I should tell him. Right after Sherlock put down his phone he ran and didn't stop until we arrived here. At the time I didn't ask for any details, I didn't need to. Looking at his face was enough to know the details weren't pretty. There was a shift in his character, a total change in appearance and in manner, and I recognised that same fear I had seen once before, he's hiding something again. I break away from John, I'm not going to tell him about this yet. Even if I wanted to I can't, there's still too much I don't even understand, too many missing puzzle pieces for it to make any sense. While I feel bad considering John and everything there's too much I don't know, too many secrets and lies to uncover and know the truth behind. Eventually, I'll tell him when the picture forms.

I push through the crowd, stepping back in horror at the sight. Even though this isn't the first time seeing a body like this, the sensation is still the same. A cold chill runs through me, my stomach ties into a knot and my legs are weak as I slowly back away. I want to look away, but I can't make myself do that either, so I stare, trapped in a limbo. I can hardly recognise him, or what's left of him. Really, the only way I can tell is by his clothing, it's the same outfit he wore the last time we saw him. Charlotte's dad's face is more massacred than the other's we've seen before. His eyes are gouged out, but with precision, like a surgeon did it, and his mouth had been in such a way it makes him have an unnatural Cheshire Cat-like grin. The limbs disgustingly twist into odd and awkward angles on his body; and instead of a masterful blood carved M, a single knife stabs the centre of his chest, holding a letter.

Reporters surround us and barrage us with questions. Who were we? What was our relation Charlotte's dad? What should the police do about it? Who did we think the murderer was? Police are there too, and they try their best to shoo away the reporters, but to no avail, there's too many of them. Charlotte is in the inner circle with us too, standing closest to the body. For once she doesn't look princess perfect, her eyes are puffy and deep bags sit under her eyes. She's paler too and hastily applied makeup runs down her face like a clown. Her usually perfect clothes look comical on her, out of place, like she's played this charade for so long and it's all come crashing now.

When she sees us she quickly replaces her grief with fury. "This is all your fault! This is all your fault!" She screams. She continues at us, spouting every known curse an insult in the English language. Sherlock doesn't respond, he doesn't even acknowledge her existence. He doesn't try to look at her, only staring at the body, his face a blank canvas.

"You bloody freak! You should be the one lying here!" She screeches in his face.

She raises her hand to slap him, but he doesn't move, he doesn't even flinch. I realise now how tired he looks, how drained he is. How the weight of it all now appears to show on his shoulders, and how hard it is for him to carry. I hadn't meant to do this to him, I hadn't meant to hurt him in this way, but it's too late now. He's carrying it, he's carrying it all. How can I take it back, how can I take the weight away? This was a final pushing point, and from here, I don't know what I can expect from him. We had been so close too, but now this, I can't even imagine what he's feeling. His fist slowly tightens and his face is dark, sharper, more dread filling it than before.

"I know, I'm sorry," He whispers, his voice barely audible. Charlotte pulls back her hand and commences to sob, breaking down on the sidewalk.

I grab his hand, feeling even colder than before. "Sherlock, are you all right?" I ask, looking at him.

He doesn't respond, he doesn't even acknowledge my existence. He looks over his shoulder and pushes me away, breaking my grasp. Then he fully sprints, easily shoving away the swarm of reporters. "Sherlock!" I chase after him, running across the road. John grabs my hand, pulling me back.

"Let him go, Hermione, let him go."

 **John POV**

Sherlock breaks away from the crowd and I frown upon seeing his face. I've only seen that expression a few times before, but once is enough for a lifetime. The storm always follows after it, and this one isn't going to be a small one either. If anything, the trouble he might dig himself into will be even worse, and I"m afraid he won't be able to make it out of it this time. I thought he had given it up too; considering everything happening, I thought it might be getting better. For a while, it had felt like things were better, I was seeing him like he was before. I thought maybe this time he would make it away, but I shouldn't have been so foolish. One summer can't take away all the damage. One summer can't make everything like the way it was before.

His walk is quick and deliberate, his face unreadable, he's too far gone into himself. Secretly I hope I'm wrong, but I know I'm not, and like the two times before I won't be able to stop him. I'll probably never be able to stop him, I can't now for sure, but I still try. "Take Hermione home, watch after her," He mutters.

"What about you? Where are you going?" He starts walking away.

I grab his wrist. "You're not going to do it, are you? You're not going to, you promised!" The look on his face is enough for me to know the answer. Dread fills me, making my stomach knot.

"You don't have to do this. There has to be another way." He doesn't hear any of my words. He never will, he's too far gone. He's too far gone to even listen to anyone, even himself.

"Goodbye John," He breaks away and runs.

I start to chase after him but stop myself. Even though I'm older than him, he towers a head over me. Added to the fact that though I might be more athletic, when he's in moods like this it'll be impossible to bring him back. I might win, I could win, but I don't want to win against him. I don't want to have to bring him back home like that. If I brought him home I'd lose him, he'd never let me into his life again and that is the last thing I want to do. Even if I wanted to, I can't stop him, no one in the world can. Not even Hermione.

Hermione runs after him and I catch her. "Let him go, Hermione, let him go." She pauses for a moment, debating whether to listen to me or continue after him. Finally, with a sigh, she chooses the latter.

We walk back home, both of us silent, each with enough thoughts to occupy us for a lifetime. Hermione's especially quiet, not saying a single word or even daring to look into my direction. Her usual air of energy and warmth is all but gone, leaving a shadow of what it once was. While I'm curious about what happened, I don't push her. I don't want to pain her any more than she already is in, and I especially don't want to make her angry. Losing Sherlock has been already terrible enough, I don't want to push her away either. I don't want to stand alone in this. I trust her enough to let her be on her own, at least for a little while. Besides, from what I can tell there isn't much I can help with the situation, there isn't much I can do about it. Even if I know I can't fix it, I can't fix any of this; it's too big for me, for anyone. I can't even lie to myself to say it would be better with me knowing because it wouldn't be. Everything would still fall apart, everything would still crash. The only difference is that I would be with them to try to keep it together.

"Hermione, you'll know I'll always be there for you, right? And even the git Sherlock cares about you too, in his own odd way."

She breaks down, crying. "This is all my fault. I'm the one to blame! It was never Sherlock's fault! He shouldn't be the way carrying this all! This is all my fault, my responsibility!" She babbles on like this, saying it over and over, going faster until it's incoherent noise, her sobs drowning it out.

I sit beside her on the kerb, wrapping my arm around her. I've never seen her break like this, I've never seen her look this weak before. Even when I had seen her crying the last time it had been different, it had felt different. This cry is more primitive, broken, desperate even. Before she'd always been able to see some way out, she'd been able to find a way to make it a little more bearable. Now with Sherlock gone, and the body, and everything else, she can't see it anymore. I can't see it anymore.

For once I realise how young she is, how young all of us are in this. We shouldn't be the ones doing this, this is the job for adults, for people who know what they're doing. This isn't a game anymore, this isn't a childhood dream. We're not children, but we're not adults either, we're caught in the world of both. We were never ready for this, we're all too young, even I'm too young. To an extent we all knew this, though, we all knew this wasn't ever meant for us. Perhaps that's why we were chosen, we rose even when we knew we wouldn't win.

"Hermione..." Her sobbings become louder and she's decompensating even more on the street. She tries to push me away, but she's too weak and tired to do it.

"Hermione!" I grab her arms and turn her, forcing her to stare at me. She tries to wriggle away, but she doesn't have enough energy to do so. She can only close her eyes, which she does so, turning her head away from me.

"I know you're scared, we all are. But you can't blame yourself for this. None of us saw this coming, not even Sherlock. Despite everything we did, despite how far we'd gone, despite how close we were, we weren't ready to face him, we weren't there yet. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't my fault, it wasn't anybody's fault. Life is sometimes unfair, tragedies happen, wrong things happen to good people who never deserved it. Despite everything we've done, it still happened. No one is to blame but we still all carry it."

"But Sherlock-"

I cut her off. "Sherlock is in as much of this mess as we are, but it doesn't give him the right to act like the way he is. What you and Sherlock both need to realise is that you're not alone in this. Yes, terrible things happen, but you don't have to carry it all. Don't you see Hermione? Don't you see that you're not alone? We can't break down like this either, we have jobs to do. We're allowed momentary times of weakness, but we can't just stand around and sob. We were assigned this, and it needs solving. We don't have the luxury of crying and acting our age. We're soldiers now."

"You don't understand, this is all my fault."

She spills everything the date, the kiss, and every little moment in between. How she's afraid because of that it is her fault, how she regrets giving it to him in the first place. How she's afraid of what he might do and why he pushed her away. She's afraid she's going to lose him and how tired she is, how tired of trying to keep it all together, how tired she is about worrying about everything, the world on her shoulders. Her words fall out of her faster and faster until they're incoherent babble again. I sit still, listening to every word.

When she finishes she wipes her eyes, her breathing slowing. "Better?" She nods. She stands and leans on me, which I don't mind. We then walk all the way back to the neighbourhood.

XXX

I stand in my room, hesitating. I'm home alone after taking Hermione home. While I plan on visiting later, I decide to give her some alone time to think about this and to process it all. We all need to time to think about this, and more importantly, what to do next. I look at the phone number again, even though I've already scanned it hundreds of times. He gave it to me in case of emergencies, though I never thought I would ever need to use it. Sherlock, of course, doesn't know, he doesn't even know I know his brother, which I barely do. Initially, I hadn't even wanted it, I hadn't wanted any contact with him, but decided for Sherlock's sake. Some help even from him is better than none and I need it more than ever now. I really don't want to call him, but I have no choice, he said if anything of this nature happened again I would have to call him, or he would send the government on us anyways. Besides, he's the only one who has a chance at bringing Sherlock back safely.

So, after of a moment of silent debate, I dial the number. "Mycroft, he's done it again."

 **Hermione POV**

After an hour or two, I decide to go back to John's house because he's right: we need to work on the case, we don't have time to waste moping around. I start to knock on the door but stop myself, hearing voices. One is John's, he's furious and barely not screaming at the other party. The other voice I don't recognise, it sounds calm, detached and cool even though it's being yelled at, I would even say bored if I didn't know better. His accent is crisp but not like the one here, cleaner, snobbier too. The voice also sounds male and older, an adult? I press my ear to the door, sending a shiver up my spine when I hear him speak again.

"What? That's your big plan?!" John yells.

"Logically, it's the best, and the most effective to prevent further... defects"

"Oh, so that's what you're calling this now? Is that all you care about? Defects, little scratches on your perfect name, little marks you need to hide! You're not even worried about him, are you?"

"Of course I'm worried about him!" The voice snaps, I can hear him take a deep breath in.

"But emotions like worry in these situations are interference and we don't have time to waste energy on them. We both need to think and emotions blocks it, you of all people should know this. Sherlock could be in more danger than the last time-"

"Sherlock?" I ask, opening the door.

For a moment, no one says anything, both of them staring at me in shock, and a bit of fear too. Each quickly looks at the other, silently arguing. John is the first to snap out of it. "Hermione, I didn't know you were here."

I turn to the look at the other person standing in the room and I vaguely recognise him as Sherlock's older brother. It's been a while since I had last seen him, but he hasn't changed much in appearance. Though it really had been a while, the last time must have been the one year I spent Christmas with them. If anything, his appearance became even sharper; he's taller and thinner too, with a severity that wasn't there before. Whatever resemblance he once had with Sherlock is gone now, replaced by a cold and arrogant demeanour. The only thing of somewhat resemblance they still share is the same sharp hooked nose and cold eyes, his are different from Sherlock's too. His eyes are more calculatory, searching but for different reasons. Mycroft wears a black suit and slicked back his hair, everything on him neat and tidy, adding more contrast to his younger brother. Apprehensively, he stares at me, studying me like Sherlock did. I know he's staring for a different reason and I'm wary under his glare.

"Ms Granger, I've heard a lot about you." He extends his hand. I don't shake it.

"How much did you hear?" John asks.

"Enough for you to have some explaining to do." Both of them look at each other again.

Finally, Mycroft asks: "How much does she know?"

"I haven't told her anything directly, at least regarding this." He eyes me before looking back at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs and turns to face me. "As you are well aware by now, my brother has his certain moods, phases let's call it. This, like the others, is one of his more unpleasant ones and John and I are trying to decide how to handle it... quietly." He says, his voice detached.

"What do you mean by phases?"

"There are paths my brother chose to walk a long time ago, and despite our best efforts, he continues to walk those paths. What lies at the end though we don't know, and we're trying our best to prevent any harm to him, permanent harm. His methods he uses to him...are effective. For the moment they are, in the short-term they let him accomplish what he desires."

"What do you mean by all this?"

John sighs, he looks tired. "What Mycroft means is that despite our best efforts, Sherlock does things neither of us can change. Neither of us can convince him to see another way, nobody can. Believe me, we've tried several times, but nothing gets through to him. So, the next best thing we can do is watch him to make sure he stays safe."

"Ist that why you called him?

John nods. "Mycroft has certain connections, he has certain powers and money to track people. He has people monitoring him now. While I still don't like it, it's the best we can do."

"So that's all we're doing then?" Watching him from afar instead of trying to bring him home?!"

"Hermione, it's not that simple-"

I cut John off. "You're right, it's not a simple problem, but you both should know there's more you can do than just watch. There has to be a way to bring him back instead of only doing this! We have to do what's right for him, regardless or what he believes. Both of you are the closest people to him, and you know what's best for him even if he doesn't!"

"Don't you think we know that?! Don't you think I"m bloody worried about him! I tried to convince to never go there, I tried to make him see another way! I tried to make him see the other world. I tried everything, Hermione! I've tried for years and years and years and I tried again today. But it never works! I can never do it! I could never bring him back! Don't you know how much I love that stupid git and how much I want him to live...but I failed. I've failed before and again. I'll fail every time after this too. I failed him as a best friend once, and now he doesn't listen to me when he needs it the most." He punches the wall, leaving a dent. Hot, angry tears stream down his face.

"I'm a failure to him, Hermione, I'm sorry," He breaks down on the floor, banging the wood. I shut my mouth, not knowing what to say.

I turn to look at Mycroft, who also looks as broken as John, though not as angry. He's more disappointed, guilty even, like he knows even more than John or me. For a moment he looks his real age, and vulnerable even human. When he catches me staring he straightens, returning to his chilling self. "That is all we can do Ms Granger, watch and wait."

 **Author's Note**

Sorry for the late update! Anyways, that's a conclusion to what's to lie ahead. I particularly hope my portrayal of Mycroft is okay, he's my favourite character (even more than Sherlock) out of all the Sherlock characters. Especially in season 4, I'm sort of disappointed in which we really didn't get to see much character development from him until the last season. I always felt there was more to him that could possibly be of explored, and felt that he needed more explanation than some of the other characters in the show. Anyways, thank you for reading and please review!


	17. Sherlock

**Author's Note**

I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 17. Sherlock**

 **Sherlock POV**

I walk across the street, careful of my surroundings. Though I don't need to be, hardly anyone is here, most are smart enough to avoid this place. The only living things here are mongrel cats and scurrying rats and trash piled so high they might as well count as a parasitic creature. Those few who are considered 'human' are usually too high or drunk to notice another teenager passing by in a large black coat in the middle of the summer. Besides, even if they did, they wouldn't care, most would think they're daydreaming. I stop and look over my shoulder, someone's watching me. I smile, Mycroft's lackeys. John must have called Mycroft, as usual. I have to admit Mycroft's hired better minions, I didn't fully notice them until now. I am definitely recommending them, they are excellent trackers.

I walk towards them, one of them noticing me, scratch that on excellent trackers. Superior perhaps, definitely better than the others. They try to run away without attracting attention to themselves, failing on both ends. I quickly catch up with one of them, flipping him on the ground, spraying his face with a home-made concoction. "I must confess I am impressed; you're the best ones my brother's hired so far."

The other slowly backs away in horror, slightly debating whether or not to take his partner. "What did you do to him?"

"I only sprayed his face with a certain chemical mix I"ve made. It's a memory eraser, with the dosage he won't remember the last 24 hours. Highly efficient too, and very painful, though. Of course, he won't remember it at all." The man writhes on the ground, screaming in agony.

The man still backs away. "And what are you going to do to me?" His voice chatters as he speaks.

I grab a pen from my pocket and pull out a notepad, scribbling the image. This should amuse him for a while, or entertain him long enough. It'll at least distract him so I won't have to deal with any more of his annoyances. "I need a delivery man. By the way, tell my brother I highly recommend you, really, you're the best he's had in a while. I might even offer a promotion. Now, normally I would erase your's too, but I found that extreme agony makes delivery time slow."

I hand it to him. "Take it to him, with my best regards." The man nods his head quickly before running.

The other man still writhes on the ground, still screaming for the whole neighbourhood to hear. Even he's being a bit melodramatic, it doesn't hurt that bad considering his screaming, I've even tested it on John and myself to make sure of that. I sigh, shaking my head before shooting a shot up him, his screaming dulling, his body slowly relaxing. This should take care of the worst of the tremors and spasms for the duration of the time. While he'll still have his memory wiped out, his bothersome screaming won't be there anymore. He'll be quiet now for a good while, though I can't say how he'll react by the time he wakes up. By then, though, I"ll be long gone. I take a look behind my back one last time, before entering the alley.

 **Hermione POV**

Mycroft continues pacing back and forth across the room so much he might make a hole in the floor. His steps are rhythmic, a nervous pacing that doesn't calm him in the slightest. Occasionally he'll stop, pause and tap his cane, but then his face hardens again and he continues. He doesn't say anything, his face deep in concentration. John's quiet too, sitting on the edge of the bed, completely still. While he's trying not to show, it I can tell he's nervous, his hands are the only things moving, clenching and unclenching the sheets. As for me, well, I sit in the centre in Sherlock's chair, occasionally watching them and trying to avoid looking at the door. If I look at it the thoughts following it come with it, and I don't want to think about those, I don't want to see those images again.

All of us are exhausted, we've taken shifts on taking watch, but none of us sleeps much in our free time anyways. Mycroft is the worst out of all, I haven't seen him close his eyes one for more than a moment. It's been four days now and it's wearing us, the time starting to show. None of us has hardly slept, hardly eaten, hardly done anything but wait. I'm especially bad, I'm too nervous to move from this chair, too afraid I'll miss something, anything. Mycroft said his men will come back soon to report to us, but it's already been a day and I'm tired of waiting. I don't know how long I can handle this. I don't know how much more time we have.

Harriet then opens the door. "There's someone uh, insisting he needs to see you all-" All of us bolt out the door.

Standing in the middle of the living room is Mycroft's apparent 'help' but he just looks like a homeless man who came off the streets. His long scraggly beard hangs in the middle of his chest and looks alive compared to him. The section of his face that doesn't have hair reveals a sanguine complexion, with dark, deep-set eyes and deep bags under them, with one eye scarred and the other twitching. His short stature doesn't help, being even shorter than me, reminding me more and more of a troll. His apparel doesn't help either, they hang loosely on his stout frame, giving him an even bulkier appearance, and they look like they were sewn together by a blind person, with random articles of cloth sticking out in odd areas across his attire. He nonchalantly lays sprawled on John's couch, his grubby and hairy feet lying on the coffee table.

"This is _your_ help?" I ask incredulously.

"Watch your tone missus, I'm just undercover." He says, standing.

Mycroft rubs his temples. "What did you find, Arthur?"

"You didn't tell me he was your brother-"

"What did you find!?" Mycroft snaps.

Alfred rummages through his pockets, pulling out a piece of paper before giving it Mycroft. Mycroft quickly scans it over, his face darkening to a deep shade of red. By the time he's finished he's composed himself, though I can still feel the anger radiating from him. It's even scarier when he's composed than when you can see it. He discreetly folds the paper, tucking it into his back pocket.

"He also, uh, wanted to mention how good I am, and-"

Mycroft's voice comes out so quietly and coldly it sends a shiver up everyone's spine. "You're fired."

"What but sir-"

"I told you're fired. Don't make me repeat myself. Escort yourself out before I have to, don't make a word, look afraid and scuttle. Don't tempt me, it would be a shame considering how fragile human skulls are." Alfred quickly understands and opens the door without a word, with Mycroft slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, no one does anything, each of us all in varying degrees of shock, all at the same thing but each for different reasons. John and I eye each other, waiting for Mycroft to explode like Sherlock. If he's anything like Sherlock he's going to be emotionally terrible. He does the unexpected, though, he laughs, laughing so hard he cries, tears falling down his face. Has he gone mad?

He continues to laugh his head off until John cuts in, making him snap back into reality. "Mycroft, are you all right?" He sees us both look at him like he's had his head chopped off, which it might as well have been the case. He straightens himself, straightening his posture and tie.

He looks back at us coldly, the only sign of anything happening is a slight tinge of pink on his face. "Apologies for my apparent...lapse."

"Apology accepted," Harriet says. John and I still stare at him in bewilderment. I can't believe how quickly he recovered from that, is really okay?

"Are you sure you're all right?" John asks, unconvinced.

"Quite fine now, thank you."

I continue to stare at him, even though he says he's fine I can tell he's lying. Maybe he's not as different as Sherlock as I thought he was, both of them lie the same way and have similar ticks too. Sherlock's being a hand twitch and Mycroft's being constant tapping on the sides of his legs. Both also seem mad at first but aren't once you get to know them, at least not in the sense of being insane. No, they're not opposites at all, they're more similar than I thought. The only difference is that Mycroft is better at hiding his thoughts than Sherlock. Mycroft catches me still staring and turns away, no doubt telling I'm reading him.

"What was on that paper anyways?" I ask.

A shadow of a smile etches across his face. "Sherlock left a note, with an apparent, well, let's call it a crude caricature of me." He hands it to me.

Drawn on it is a poorly scribbled doodle of a rotund child with a face messily covered in cake. In fact, he's so big he's made the table topple over because of his large belly, and the chair squeaks under his pressure. Surrounding him are balloons and boxes for presents. The boy himself looks rather pleased and wears a triangle hat, and a too-small suit, the buttons, flying off the shirt. Under that, in Sherlock's messy scrawl he's written: 'Mycroft's birthday'. I incredulously look at Mycroft. I don't know which one is more ridiculous, the fact that this gluttonous child is supposedly him or Mycroft was laughing so hard at this crude drawing. It doesn't surprise me that Sherlock drew this, but I would never expect such a childish laugh from Mycroft. I especially would never guess him laughing over such a stupid thing like this. I hand the image over to John, who looks as confused as me when he sees it.

Mycroft's still slightly smiling, frowning when he sees our confused faces. "A bit humorous, I admit," Mycroft says, stiffening again.

"It's something for sure," John replies.

"My brother does have an interesting point of view," Mycroft admits as John's hands back the paper. He neatly folds the paper again and gently tucks it in.

"What are we going to do now?" John asks. The serenity facade temporarily breaks across Mycroft's face, but he quickly composes himself again.

Mycroft's eyes cloud over, and I know we've lost him again, his voice is soft again when he speaks."I have no idea."

 **Sherlock POV**

I walk in the alleyway, covering my nose; I forgot how repulsive it smells here. I check again to make sure no ones following me before I start on my destination, counting the turns. Right, right, left, right, down, right, left, right. When I reach it, I stop, breathing a sigh of relief at the better air. The initial purpose of the building was a rehab centre, a safe haven to the mentally unfit for the poorer parts of the city. As with most cases, it didn't have enough funding, there were too many people to help and too little time to do anything for them. It became a ghost, a phantom of its purpose, only symboling the broken hopes and dreams of a better future for some. A shell of a building still looking for a purpose. Ironically, while it does serve a purpose it's for the exact opposite reason if its creation. It still acts as a safe haven but for those it was trying to save. Here, where once you might have been cured, now you are further injured. It offers the only shelter for the poor, the lost, and the dejected, all who don't fit in and are running away from society are welcomed. Everyone here is equal, all the dirt of society tossed away. I take another deep breath in before entering.

Inside the place is rather same since the last time I've been here. Dust clouds the air, making it darker, more distorted, and dingier than it already is. The few windows it does have, are most broken, with glass shards spiking from the edges, creating odd kaleidoscope patterns on the floor. Poor light shines through them, offering little help to reveal the dejectedness of this place. Graffiti paints the walls, stories in every one of them made by odd slangs and loopy letter either too chipped or too covered with others to decipher. Littering the floor are trash bags, cigarette butts, old syringes, broken glass bottles and old mattresses or even blankets with people of the lowest of the low. Here only the rejected stay because nowhere else will take them. Most stare at me blankly, too lost in their own world to notice another teenager entering this pathetic place.

I walk up the stairs to the second floor, and while it's still terrible it's better here. For one, more light floods in, and there's less garbage, or a walkable path. Most of these people are conscious or aware enough of their surroundings for being so high. They also have mattresses and other belongings on them, they're not from this part of town either. These are the high paying customers, though one usually wouldn't notice one from the other unless you know what you're looking for. Takes one to know one I suppose.

I look in the corner and he's there, as usual. "Long time no see, Mr Holmes." He breaks out into a wicked grin.

He steps into the dim light, smiling, his jagged golden teeth showing. He looks different, older and more insane, but then again it's been 2 years. His attire is still the same, the same old dusty and overly large and baggy jeans, with t-shirts with indie bands and ironic catchphrases no one has ever heard of. He's grown taller, he's about as tall as me now, though he still has that sheepish walk which makes him look smaller. Deep bags still rest under his eyes and his grey eyes still have that shifty, coy, and paranoid look in them. His hands nervously twitch at his sides, anticipating, deciding whether or not to try to steal from me. He decides he doesn't though. His eyes light up when he sees me, a rare sight in such a place.

"What'll be today, Mr Holmes?" Billy asks, grinning nervously.

"Just the usual." I pull out a 100 dollars.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, that won't cut you this time."

"What do you mean? It's always been this price."

"Times have changed Mr Holmes. I've got a client list now, a big one. I'm in bigger demand. I've got clients, high paying clients who'll pay big bucks for their little highs. Just look how many beds I've had to scrounge in the dumps for them all." He waves his hands around the room.

"Billy, I'm the one who showed you how to get rich in the first place! Remember your business before me? I'm the one who told you how to find the good clients!" I yell, a lazy hush goes over the room.

"Rules are rules, Mr Holmes. I'll cut you a little deal though since you're such a long time customer. I'm loyal like that, ya hear? I'll give you 25% off, it'll be $200. And don't try to outsmart me either, I know you have it on ya, I see you fidgeting with ya back pocket." I grit my teeth in annoyance, he's definitely gotten better, almost too good. I pull out another 100. He hands me a syringe filled to the brim.

"This should be your right dosage, you've gotten a bit bigger now, might be harder to get what ya want now. There's a bed in the right corner, I hope I don't have to show ya how to do it again." He snarkily grins.

I grit my teeth and his grin disappears. "I can do it on my own, thank you."

"Of course you can. Pleasure doing business with you Mr Holmes." With that, he disappears back into the shadows.

I lay on the bed, a cloud of dust coming up when I do. I cough, bloody hell, I forgot how terrible this place was. Then again, I never was in the best mental state most of the time to make such deductions. I lay on the mattress, careful to avoid the sticking metal springs and the various spills of heroin, liquid byproducts and god knows what.

I stare at the liquid a while, toying with it, swishing it back and forth in the syringe. Even though I've seen it hundreds of times before I'm still mesmerised by it, the chemicals are still fascinating to me. My hands shake when I hold it, a bad habit I haven't broken yet. It's become progressively worse, it used to only happen when I was nervous, maybe it happens more now because I'm nervous more of the time than not. I try to make my hands stop, I'm out of practice, I haven't done this in a while. The syringe feels still wrong in my hand, unnatural, even though I've done this before. I force myself to stop shaking so I can shoot an accurate shot. Slowly, I pull back my sleeve, rolling it up neatly to reveal my pale skin and my all too thin veins. Have I always been this pale? Have my veins always looked this thin? I shake my head, it's nerves, that's all. I don't know why I'm so nervous, I don't know why my heart is racing this fast, why everything in me shakes, it isn't like this is my first time.

When I had first done this it had been messy, I wasn't accurate at all, I missed my vein several times before hitting it, and there was still blood on the syringe. I hadn't even been able to pull it out because the high had hit me so quickly. To be fair they had nearly overdosed me, but still, I wasn't prepared for my mind to feel that way. Mycroft was the one who apparently found me and had pulled out the syringe, though I don't remember much of that trip. Apparently, I screamed a lot, the added stimulus too much for my mind to handle at the time. I only remember bits and pieces, the intensity is still too much that my brain still hasn't been able to fully process any of it. I only remember the start of the high, my heart racing, the intense lightm filling me, my mind racing 1000 miles per hour, being so fast & out of control, like a car about to crash and nobody can stop it. I was absolutely terrified of my own mind, absolutely scared of crashing. Next thing I knew I was awake in Mycroft's place with an IV in one arm and the other bandaged. I had been out for one day, and he had found me in the drug den. He made me promise I wouldn't do it again, which of course was a lie, even then I knew I was lying. We both knew it, but Mycroft would tell Mum and Dad and wouldn't take me home unless I said otherwise. I was only 11 at the time and still naive enough to believe in him so I did. After that, well I lost count of how many other times I've been here. I only remembering entering and then waking up somewhere else. The middle always fades away, like a forgotten dream.

John flashes in my head, his face worried, 'you don't have to do this, there's another way.' I push him away, I don't need him speaking now, it's far too late. I've alreadyI've already paid for this and I might as well use it. I need to use it, this is the only way. This is the only way to beat him, this is the only way to think faster than him. We've already lost too much time, we need this so we might have a chance at beating him to the next one. This is the only way, I'm not allowing another body to be found because we didn't have enough time. Time is never on our side, we have to use other methods now. Hermione's worried face flashes in my mind too, and I try to push her away but it's harder. Even when I close my eyes and force her away her eyes still burn in my head. Bloody hell, what's wrong with me? Why am I thinking of her now? Why am I worried about her? I'm doing this for her, for us. I'm doing this to end it all so she has what she wants: an end to everything.

Sweat trickles down my nose as I slowly inject the liquid, filling my blood stream. What most don't realise is you don't immediately feel the high. You feel the poke of the needle go into you, but you don't immediately feel the high afterwards. It slowly builds in you, and you're conscious for the most part in this state. I can't describe it well, it's like a tingling, but not a numbing tingling, but almost like your arm is on fire. It infectious, spreading throughout you like a virus, which I suppose it is. Out of nowhere the high hits you, knocking the air out of you. I unknowingly make a large gasp, desperate for air. I forgot how much of a punch the high has, euphoria following after, filling me like an empty putting every part in me that's missing. Yes, this is the high I've needed for a while. I haven't felt this way since- no, I can't be thinking about this now. I don't want to think about her now, it doesn't feel right to. I don't want to think about anything so I let the drug wash over me, slowly fading into it.

My nerves are on fire, every neurone in my brain in overdrive and haywire, sending stimuli and signals like a madman. Nothing is everything, every detail matters now, and it can't shut out which ones I need and which ones I don't. I have no control now, and it's exhilarating and terrifying. I let it run through me, facts going in and out of me in the blink of an eye and I notice every one of them, whether I want to not. Mysterious phantoms run across my skin, tingling to the touch, running across my back, my arms, and even my face. My brain decodes everything now, seeing every pattern every detail, every little thing I might have forgotten. I want to shut my eyes but can't my brain refuses to, it refuses to listen to me now. It's so intense like I'm flying a thousand miles per hour yet I can't feel a single muscle moving. Times moves relatively slowly too, waxing and waning like a candle at the end. Everything is distorted and wrong and right at the same time, nothing and everything make sense, the past connects to the future. I"m dreaming and yet I'm awake and I've never felt this alive before. Hallucinations play in my mind, dancing figures, running dogs, valiant pirates on the shore. I can't close my mind off now, I'm too far gone. This is what I want, though. Slowly I will myself to close my eyes and delve into my mind palace, disappearing under the waves of joy and stimuli.

Before I fall, though, before I lose everything, before I lose my reality, my control, and everything in this world for a while I see her again. "Stop it," I command myself, I don't want her to see me like this. I don't want to see her worried face, I don't want her to be worried about me. I don't want to see her because I would have to explain myself and she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't know how much she means and why I have to do this. She wouldn't see it, none of them can. None of them sees why we need this, why I need this, why I need this high.

Her worried face stares at me and I yell at her to go away, to stop looking, to stop judging, to save herself. She doesn't listen, she merely frowns, not saying a word. This makes me angrier but I don't do anything, eventually, I ignore her and when I look back she's disappeared. A shadow of her face stares one more time at me, before going away altogether. I check to see if she's there but she's gone, just like a dream. It is a dream, she was never here in the first place. I don't ever want to wake up so I dive deeper.

 **Author's Note**

That's a wrap! I mentioned before how I love Mycroft but I'm going to mention it again because I really do adore the character. It's hard to write about him, partly because it is a younger, probably less mature version of himself but also because I'm afraid of messing up the character (making him seem unlike himself even though this version isn't the exact BBC Sherlock version.) I wish to see him more but I don't think the story will permit that, especially considering the next few chapters. As for Sherlock well, this was certainly the most interesting to write, especially considering my search history on what it feels to be high. I always sort of wondered how Sherlock got involved into drugs in the first place, and how it would react not only with his body but mentally with his mind. After all, there must be some good affect he feels in order to continue it, and I think there has to be some way he needs it so as to focus, or concentrate on things. Ayways, thank you for reading and please review!


	18. Sherlock Part 2

**Author's Note**

I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 18. The End**

 **Hermione POV**

It's been 2 days now, my levels of anxiety aren't any better if anything, it's worse. I can't stand it, I can't stand waiting around here like this! I can't stand waiting around and be doing nothing while Sherlock could be hurt or even-no, I don't want to think about that possibility either. How can Mycroft and John be so calm about it, or not going mad like I am?

I'm staying at home now, deciding I need a break from all of it. I thought if I was away from there I wouldn't feel so tense, but it's even worse here alone. My mind keeps wandering back to him, and my chest tightens every time I imagine him possibly being in any danger. I haven't slept much, and the times I do it's plagued with nightmares; I keep seeing his body like the others, his arms twisted back his eyes dull, his chest staining his shirt red. Maniacal cruel laughter rings in my ears as I stand next to him, and try to save him, try to wake him. I shake my head and remind myself it's only a dream. It isn't real, yet.

I reach towards my phone on the bedstand but hesitate. I've already called John twice today, but he hasn't answered and I don't want to bother him anymore. Last time I heard from him he and Mycroft had headed off to the police station, to try to convince them to send a search party after him. Not that they'll help them considering what sort of impression Sherlock left the last time we were all there. Even if they did, I doubt they would be much help; if Mycroft's top people couldn't find him I doubt those lacklustre muggles could. John offered to take me, but I declined. It's not like I don't want to help John and Mycroft or I'm trying to avoid them, but I can't make myself move. I can barely make myself move outside of my room like I'm trapped in here, trapped by my own thoughts and worries. I'm afraid once I step out of the door, once I step out and face reality they will find him, or what's left of him. I'm scared of the truth outside of these doors.

I take a deep breath, that's it, I've had it. I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of depending on others to find him. I'm tired of hoping everything will be okay yet at the same time worrying myself sick about the worst possibilities. Even if the outcome is bad, there's always a way to save him, right? There has to be a way to find him before any problems. If I wait, I may be too late and I am not going to take that chance. Quickly, I grab my jack and shoes, tucking in my wand just in case because God knows what sort of trouble Sherlock might have buried himself into.

XXX

I check the streets, making sure they're empty. Surprisingly they are, the place is deserted. Slowly I pull out my wand, checking over my shoulder one last time. I sigh, I haven't done this in a while; I'd been too busy to practice or learn any spell work. Not that I could anyway, I was only granted my wand over the summer because of this case. Otherwise, I wouldn't be even allowed to practice any form of magic over the summer.

I examine my wand, rubbing ever bump, scratch and indenture in it. I've had this wand for years, yet it still feels like yesterday when I was standing in Ollivander's. I remember the excitement, the anticipation, the curiosity in which wand type he would select for me. I'd already read a whole novel about wand types the day before, how the different types of wood, length, and even wand cores corresponded to the person. Still, my wand choice surprised me: 10 3/4 vine wood, dragon heartstring. I stare at my wand, so much has changed since then, maybe it would have been better if I was a muggle. Of course, that could never happen, even muggle borns by the time they're 11 can't stay hidden in England, and all have to attend Hogwarts. Still, as much as I love the wizarding world, sometimes I just don't want to be a part of the chaos within it. Sometimes, I want to pretend to be normal.

I take a deep breath in, my hands shaky. Even though I've cast this spell dozens of times, the wand still feels out-of-place in my hand. Perhaps it's because I'm so out of practice, but even then the wand acts more nervous in my hand than usual. I draw the line with my wand, the line uneasy. "Focus Hermione, you can do this," I scold.

Slowly I manage to my hands stop shaking so I'm able to cast a straight enough line. I take another deep breath, this is the crucial part now. I try focusing on him, picturing him as I always do, letting the magic try to sense where he is. It's hard, though, I've only done this spells with objects, small ones too. I'd never done it with a person because I hadn't ever needed to. I don't even know if the spell will work. I furrow my brows in concentration. "Come on Hermione, focus!"

The wand is burning hot in my hands now, and I can feel the wand singing my palm, but I don't drop it, not yet. I whisper the words, forcing it out of me. "Accio, Sherlock."

Suddenly my wand buckles like a horse, first nearly snapping in half before reverting into a straight line. For a moment the mere force of it pushes me back, making me fly into the wall behind me, but then it stops, the wand flying out of my hand. I check my hands, there are small burns but nothing serious enough a small healing potion can't fix. I search for and find my wand, dropping it quickly at the immense heat it gives off, the tip still singing. Once it's cool enough to grab I examine it, looking for any signs of fixable damage. It's in bad shape, the buckling I'm guessing caused it to nearly break, a long crack line runs from the end to nearly the base. Also, even though I can hold it it's still hot to the touch, too hot for it to be normal. I can feel the magic seeping out of the wand, sputtering out in bright flashes like an old car engine drips oil. Smoke still comes off from the wand, and the core even though I can't see it, I can tell it burned out. It's useless now.

I'm about to tuck it in when the wand gains a second burst of energy. Instead of pushing me back, it pulls me, dragging me. I grip it tighter, partly afraid of losing my wand (or whatever has possessed it) but also because I'm afraid of falling. By the time we bend around the corner we're going so fast the bustling people, shops and other buildings turn into blurs. I can hear people talking, their exclaimed voices shouting as I speed through them, but we go so fast I can't even make out what they're saying. I drag my heels into the ground to try to pace myself, but the wand has a mind of it's now, going even faster. Eventually, I only hold on, praying the trip is short.

The ground below me slowly changes, from the nice paved sidewalks of town to dirty asphalt littered with trash and spills and various other powders. It veers a sharp left and pulls me into an alleyway, and though I still can't see where we're heading I can hear the mumblings of people, smell the repulsive air, and feel the overall dejectedness of the place. The wand slows and I can see the building I'm heading towards. It looks like an old hospital, the windows and paint chipping off from it. Why would my wand lead me here? The wand breaks open the doors, dragging me past halls upon halls filled to the brim with people from all walks of life, all drunk and high out of their minds, and then up the stairs to a small room.

My wand comes to a halt and burns out. I drop it one minute before it sets itself ablaze. I put out the fire, and pick the fragmented pieces. A wave of nausea washes over me and I collapse on the floor, gagging from my nausea and the even worse smell in here. Now that I'm still I can see the place fully, and even though the air is a bit better in here, it still makes me sick to my stomach.

Once the initial wave is over I look around. This place is one of the most dejected places I've ever seen. I cover my nose, another wave of nausea coming over me as I try not to suffocate on the air in here. I can't describe the smell well, it's a mix between burnt cigars, old alcohol, and sweltering heat of masses of bodies. Trash scampers across the floor along with dust and mildew. There's more light in here, but barely, there's only enough for me to see little more than blurry figures in the shadows.

I freeze, I forgot about the potential of muggles here. How could I be so stupid, using magic so recklessly? I look around, luckily most of them are either comatose or too high or drunk to notice me, or if they do they'll blame it on a bad trip. I stiffen, someone's walking towards me. "Hey Missus, what ah is ya doing here?" I turn around to face a scrawny, grubby weasel faced boy, hiding in the shadows.

"If ya want it ya have ta pay, only high paying customers not just some-" I shoot the remainder of my wand at him, and he collapses on the ground. I run over and check, he's still but he's breathing. I sigh, that was close. I would hate to have to explain to the Ministry anything about this, or the reason I'm in this situation in the first place and how irresponsible I was being against the State of Secrecy. No doubt I've already broken dozens of rules in sighting, with the way my wand's been acting.

I hear a groan coming from the corner. I back away at first, unsure of who it is. I try to make out the outline of the person in the corner, it's hard though because the figure is so thin it blends into the mattress. I manage to make out a head before I hear the voice utter the words: "Hermione..." I freeze for a second before bolting towards the voice, my wand consciously tucked behind me. At first, I don't recognise him; not only because of the dim light but also because of the terrible state he's in. I close my eyes, wiping away the tears and scolding myself. "Now isn't the time to cry, he's still alive," I say, checking his pulse. I shudder when I hear it, it's so faint and erratic. I slowly drag him onto me, carrying most of him on my back. I found him, I found Sherlock Holmes.

 **Author's Note**

I'm sorry for the hectice scheduling, anyways, here's the chapter. I can't promise the next few chapters to be stable either, it's been a struggle to try to find both the time and effort to write and finish this. I would like to finish this hoepfully before the end of 2017 though. Anyways, thank you for reading and please like and review!


	19. The End

**Author's Note**

I don't own any of the Harry Potter or Sherlock universe

 **Chapter 18. The End**

 **Hermione POV**

It's been 2 days now, my levels of anxiety aren't any better if anything, it's worse. I can't stand it, I can't stand waiting around here like this! I can't stand waiting around and be doing nothing while Sherlock could be hurt or even-no, I don't want to think about that possibility either. How can Mycroft and John be so calm about it, or not going mad like I am?

I'm staying at home now, deciding I need a break from all of it. I thought if I was away from there I wouldn't feel so tense, but it's even worse here alone. My mind keeps wandering back to him, and my chest tightens every time I imagine him possibly being in any danger. I haven't slept much, and the times I do it's plagued with nightmares; I keep seeing his body like the others, his arms twisted back his eyes dull, his chest staining his shirt red. Maniacal cruel laughter rings in my ears as I stand next to him, and try to save him, try to wake him. I shake my head and remind myself it's only a dream. It isn't real, yet.

I reach towards my phone on the bedstand but hesitate. I've already called John twice today, but he hasn't answered and I don't want to bother him anymore. Last time I heard from him he and Mycroft had headed off to the police station, to try to convince them to send a search party after him. Not that they'll help them considering what sort of impression Sherlock left the last time we were all there. Even if they did, I doubt they would be much help; if Mycroft's top people couldn't find him I doubt those lacklustre muggles could. John offered to take me, but I declined. It's not like I don't want to help John and Mycroft or I'm trying to avoid them, but I can't make myself move. I can barely make myself move outside of my room like I'm trapped in here, trapped by my own thoughts and worries. I'm afraid once I step out of the door, once I step out and face reality they will find him, or what's left of him. I'm scared of the truth outside of these doors.

I take a deep breath, that's it, I've had it. I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of depending on others to find him. I'm tired of hoping everything will be okay yet at the same time worrying myself sick about the worst possibilities. Even if the outcome is bad, there's always a way to save him, right? There has to be a way to find him before any problems. If I wait, I may be too late and I am not going to take that chance. Quickly, I grab my jack and shoes, tucking in my wand just in case because God knows what sort of trouble Sherlock might have buried himself into.

XXX

I check the streets, making sure they're empty. Surprisingly they are, the place is deserted. Slowly I pull out my wand, checking over my shoulder one last time. I sigh, I haven't done this in a while; I'd been too busy to practice or learn any spell work. Not that I could anyway, I was only granted my wand over the summer because of this case. Otherwise, I wouldn't be even allowed to practice any form of magic over the summer.

I examine my wand, rubbing ever bump, scratch and indenture in it. I've had this wand for years, yet it still feels like yesterday when I was standing in Ollivander's. I remember the excitement, the anticipation, the curiosity in which wand type he would select for me. I'd already read a whole novel about wand types the day before, how the different types of wood, length, and even wand cores corresponded to the person. Still, my wand choice surprised me: 10 3/4 vine wood, dragon heartstring. I stare at my wand, so much has changed since then, maybe it would have been better if I was a muggle. Of course, that could never happen, even muggle borns by the time they're 11 can't stay hidden in England, and all have to attend Hogwarts. Still, as much as I love the wizarding world, sometimes I just don't want to be a part of the chaos within it. Sometimes, I want to pretend to be normal.

I take a deep breath in, my hands shaky. Even though I've cast this spell dozens of times, the wand still feels out-of-place in my hand. Perhaps it's because I'm so out of practice, but even then the wand acts more nervous in my hand than usual. I draw the line with my wand, the line uneasy. "Focus Hermione, you can do this," I scold.

Slowly I manage to my hands stop shaking so I'm able to cast a straight enough line. I take another deep breath, this is the crucial part now. I try focusing on him, picturing him as I always do, letting the magic try to sense where he is. It's hard, though, I've only done this spells with objects, small ones too. I'd never done it with a person because I hadn't ever needed to. I don't even know if the spell will work. I furrow my brows in concentration. "Come on Hermione, focus!"

The wand is burning hot in my hands now, and I can feel the wand singing my palm, but I don't drop it, not yet. I whisper the words, forcing it out of me. "Accio, Sherlock."

Suddenly my wand buckles like a horse, first nearly snapping in half before reverting into a straight line. For a moment the mere force of it pushes me back, making me fly into the wall behind me, but then it stops, the wand flying out of my hand. I check my hands, there are small burns but nothing serious enough a small healing potion can't fix. I search for and find my wand, dropping it quickly at the immense heat it gives off, the tip still singing. Once it's cool enough to grab I examine it, looking for any signs of fixable damage. It's in bad shape, the buckling I'm guessing caused it to nearly break, a long crack line runs from the end to nearly the base. Also, even though I can hold it it's still hot to the touch, too hot for it to be normal. I can feel the magic seeping out of the wand, sputtering out in bright flashes like an old car engine drips oil. Smoke still comes off from the wand, and the core even though I can't see it, I can tell it burned out. It's useless now.

I'm about to tuck it in when the wand gains a second burst of energy. Instead of pushing me back, it pulls me, dragging me. I grip it tighter, partly afraid of losing my wand (or whatever has possessed it) but also because I'm afraid of falling. By the time we bend around the corner we're going so fast the bustling people, shops and other buildings turn into blurs. I can hear people talking, their exclaimed voices shouting as I speed through them, but we go so fast I can't even make out what they're saying. I drag my heels into the ground to try to pace myself, but the wand has a mind of it's now, going even faster. Eventually, I only hold on, praying the trip is short.

The ground below me slowly changes, from the nice paved sidewalks of town to dirty asphalt littered with trash and spills and various other powders. It veers a sharp left and pulls me into an alleyway, and though I still can't see where we're heading I can hear the mumblings of people, smell the repulsive air, and feel the overall dejectedness of the place. The wand slows and I can see the building I'm heading towards. It looks like an old hospital, the windows and paint chipping off from it. Why would my wand lead me here? The wand breaks open the doors, dragging me past halls upon halls filled to the brim with people from all walks of life, all drunk and high out of their minds, and then up the stairs to a small room.

My wand comes to a halt and burns out. I drop it one minute before it sets itself ablaze. I put out the fire, and pick the fragmented pieces. A wave of nausea washes over me and I collapse on the floor, gagging from my nausea and the even worse smell in here. Now that I'm still I can see the place fully, and even though the air is a bit better in here, it still makes me sick to my stomach.

Once the initial wave is over I look around. This place is one of the most dejected places I've ever seen. I cover my nose, another wave of nausea coming over me as I try not to suffocate on the air in here. I can't describe the smell well, it's a mix between burnt cigars, old alcohol, and sweltering heat of masses of bodies. Trash scampers across the floor along with dust and mildew. There's more light in here, but barely, there's only enough for me to see little more than blurry figures in the shadows.

I freeze, I forgot about the potential of muggles here. How could I be so stupid, using magic so recklessly? I look around, luckily most of them are either comatose or too high or drunk to notice me, or if they do they'll blame it on a bad trip. I stiffen, someone's walking towards me. "Hey Missus, what ah is ya doing here?" I turn around to face a scrawny, grubby weasel faced boy, hiding in the shadows.

"If ya want it ya have ta pay, only high paying customers not just some-" I shoot the remainder of my wand at him, and he collapses on the ground. I run over and check, he's still but he's breathing. I sigh, that was close. I would hate to have to explain to the Ministry anything about this, or the reason I'm in this situation in the first place and how irresponsible I was being against the State of Secrecy. No doubt I've already broken dozens of rules in sighting, with the way my wand's been acting.

I hear a groan coming from the corner. I back away at first, unsure of who it is. I try to make out the outline of the person in the corner, it's hard though because the figure is so thin it blends into the mattress. I manage to make out a head before I hear the voice utter the words: "Hermione..." I freeze for a second before bolting towards the voice, my wand consciously tucked behind me. At first, I don't recognise him; not only because of the dim light but also because of the terrible state he's in. I close my eyes, wiping away the tears and scolding myself. "Now isn't the time to cry, he's still alive," I say, checking his pulse. I shudder when I hear it, it's so faint and erratic. I slowly drag him onto me, carrying most of him on my back. I found him, I found Sherlock Holmes.

 **Author's Note**

I'm sorry for the hectice scheduling, anyways, here's the chapter. I can't promise the next few chapters to be stable either, it's been a struggle to try to find both the time and effort to write and finish this. I would like to finish this hoepfully before the end of 2017 though. Anyways, thank you for reading and please like and review!


End file.
